


From the Diary of Cecil Baldwin

by malacophilous (orphan_account)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Asphyxiaphilia, Aural Kink, CARLSBERRRRG, Carlos approaches things scientifically, Carlos is a Dork, Cecil is not cis, Cecil is not trans either, Communication, Conspiracy, D/s, Daddy/boy relationship, Diary/Journal, Drinking, Dystopia, Exhibitionism, Forced Separation, Gaslighting, Gen, Government Conspiracy, Heartbreak, Human Experimentation, Implied chronophilia, Implied student/teacher kink, Inhuman characters, Latex, M/M, Mystery, Nonverbal Communication, Not canon compliant after Cassette, Oral Sex, Original Character Death(s), Other, Past Brainwashing, Pica, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Length: 10-20 Minutes, Podfic Length: 20-30 Minutes, Podfic Length: 30-45 Minutes, Police Brutality, Roleplay, Size Kink, Smoking, Social Experiments, Spontaneous sex, Station Management isn't malevolent, Unethical Experimentation, Vampires?? who knows what they are, Workplace Sex, discussion of kinks not contextually enacted:, examination/scrutiny kink, orthodontia fetish, past behavioural conditioning, there's a little bit of meta commentary, vitiligo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-23 02:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/malacophilous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Above all things, Cecil is a chronicler.  When he isn't broadcasting his thoughts and experiences, he's writing them in his diary; after all, his show's time slot is only half an hour--he can't talk about EVERYTHING on the air, now, can he?<br/>(Podfic hosted on Soundcloud, with a link in each chapter.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> I wrote this with the intention of recording it as a podfic, as my husband and girlfriend have told me I do a good Cecil. If you like this story, you can download the recordings here: https://soundcloud.com/malacophilous/

_You can listen to the performance of this chapter[here](https://soundcloud.com/malacophilous/from-the-diary-of-cecil-6)._

Tuesday, 10am

Dear Diary,

I awoke to the sound of the memory of birds. When I looked out of the window I saw that the strange tree—you know, the one just outside my apartment building that constantly sheds petals but never seems to have any actual flowers?—had left its usual gift around my windowsill: the thick, porous, calcified white petals scattered across the fire escape like shards of an exploded skull. It was _beautiful_. I had toast and coffee for breakfast, and that half an apple left over from when I made chicken salad for the fund-raiser potluck, which I had been meaning to eat. (The apple, not the chicken salad. I assume the chicken salad has moved on with its life—settled somewhere. Raised a family. Achieved its mayonnaise-imbued dreams.)

Today Carlos and I are going to meet for ice cream, because the last time we met for lunch Strange Things kept reaching up from under the edge of his plate to harass him and nibble his wrists lasciviously. Carlos says that perhaps it would be wise if he stayed away from plates for awhile. To be perfectly honest, I would like plates to stay away from _him_.

I imagine what he must be doing right now. Does the pursuit of scientific knowledge drive him to rise with the sun, bolt down toast and rush to his lab next to Big Rico's Pizza, or is he having a leisurely morning, as I am? Is he avoiding bowls as well as plates? I suppose he is eating over the sink, then, crumbs dropping down into the drain. Ah, that brings back fond memories of my college days at Night Vale Liberal Arts! I hope whomever now inhabits my old dorm has been kind enough to feed the dear little fellow who lives in the pipes. Of course, that residence hall burned down in the hailstorm of '87, but that doesn't mean the students who live there oughtn't be kind to the pipe-dwelling alumni.

Today in the mail slot I received my first instalment of the _Death Knell_ , that new independent publication or 'zine' published by Big Rico's daughter Marietta and her long-time girlfriend, whose name escapes me at the moment but whose most prominent feature is her luxurious golden beard into which she braids small plastic beads shaped like Hello Kitty. I, of course, being the Voice of Night Vale, must keep myself apprised of all local news and opinions—and since the Night Vale Daily Journal has fallen on hard and extortion-heavy times, the most relevant content is presented to the common man in the form of such self-published circulars. I found out about the _Death Knell_ from Pinkie Pinkerton, the tall and heavily-perforated young man who works the Monday through Thursday shift at Dehydration Comics on Birch Street near Dark Owl Records. We have always been friendly, and at one time he entertained a sort of crush on me which I still cannot begin to fathom, though, being sentimental, I naturally kept the cyanide-scented notes he would slip into my graphic novels at the register while I counted out the appropriate change. He has a particular flair for poetry, and his word choice is nothing if not _evocative_. I never would have thought to rhyme my own name with 'diesel', for example.

Carlos and I have been together for almost a whole week! I wonder when it would be appropriate to suggest a blood-bonding ritual. I know an excellent mage who conducts lovely ceremonies for a very reasonable fee.

 

Still Tuesday, 4:45pm

We leaned against the rail of the wheelchair ramp outside of the White Sand Ice Cream Shop, each of us holding a waffle cone wrapped in its own little sleeve of paper, mine bearing two scoops of Pistachio Soul-Rind Ripple. Carlos had chosen Strawberry Stardust, which he said had seemed like the safest flavour available. I asked him, 'What about vanilla?' and he said, 'It was breathing, Cecil,' and I suppose he had a point.

After we had finished our ice cream and, as is only polite, I had thanked the generous souls whose rinds I had consumed, we walked across the strip mall parking lot, past the vacant lot out back of the Ralph's (which was blurred at the edges and vibrating slightly), and up onto that stony little hill that overlooks the car lot. There was a bench there, with a little plaque dedicating it to the memory of _~~XXXXXXXXX~~_ , and when we tried to sit on it, it groaned with sudden pain, so we decided to just stand a little ways off.

'Cecil,' said Carlos, 'I've been thinking.'

'I've been broadcasting,' I said, remembering that this was how he broached the subject of what had been going on in our respective professions.

'No, I mean,' he said, and once again I felt out of sorts. In our conversations—when we did converse, rather than just think peacefully while near each other—I always feel that I'm a step behind him. I suppose that's to be expected when you date someone dazzlingly intelligent.

Carlos said, 'I mean I've been thinking about your life.'

'What about it?' I asked, not thinking it was all that special. Perhaps he wanted to examine it with science? (I wouldn't mind if he examined me.)

'Did you... grow up in Night Vale?'

'No,' I said.

'Well, where?'

'Where did I what?'

'Grow up.'

'Oh. Hmm.' I paused thoughtfully. The bench, off to my left, shifted into a more comfortable position, sighing. 'I suppose it's not important, otherwise I would remember.'

'But you've been other places, haven't you?' he asked, running a hand through his perfect locks, disrupted curls settling back against the nape of his beautiful neck. 'You mentioned having gone to Europe when you were in college.'

'I did!' I said, smiling fondly at the memory. 'And... and I've been to Desert Bluffs—one horrible, blood-curdling time. I couldn't recommend it. Don't _ever_ go to Desert Bluffs, Carlos, it's just _awful_.'

Carlos was still full of questions, as always. He could interrogate me _all day_. 'Where did you go on vacation as a kid?'

'Disney World,' I said, without thinking. Then, clapping a hand to my mouth, I gasped. 'Oh, I didn't, really! I don't remember ever having gone to Florida. I don't remember ever having lived there, either.' I felt a sinking, nervous feeling in my stomach. Why had I said that?

' _Where_ don't you remember living in Florida?' said Carlos, eyeing me keenly through those lush, dark lashes.

'Well, I certainly didn't live in Hillsborough County,' I said, and even though I hadn't intended to say it, I felt adamant on that point.

'I think I've finally figured out how to get answers out of you,' said Carlos, smiling, and I could see his exquisite teeth.

'I'm sure there are _other_ ways,' I said, trying to sound sultry, but a winged insect of prominent build flew into my mouth at that stage and ruined the mood.

Diary, will I ever succeed in wooing my lab-coated love? Going on dates with someone is _not_ the same as winning their affections, and even being kissed, just once, gently, is no guarantee that they're likely to stick around. Perhaps I should... get him a gift, to show I'm serious? If only it were opal season! They're hard to find this time of year, and even at the best of times are so hard to cultivate in this dry climate. Perhaps I will talk to Paul, who manages the garden section of the Home Depot. If there are any opals around here, he would know.

 

Wednesday, 8:30am

Dear Diary,

Today is my birthday! To my knowledge, I am fifty-two. Of course, I was fifty-two last year, and the year before that. I do not remember being anything else. I suppose I was one of those people one hears about, who is born a certain age. Since I do not recall being born, it's entirely possible. This system of measuring one's age by how many cakes with candles with which they have been presented in their lifetime is flawed, at best. What if one year you don't want cake? What if you hate cake, and would prefer, for instance, invisible pie? Would that mean you would have to start over counting cakes? Is that what happened to me? Since my mother ceased to exist at some stage of my life which I do not recall, I do not know whom to ask these sorts of questions.

In honour of the day I have worn my nicest ensemble: my favourite furry pants, platform boots, scar-woven tunic, and my black silk tie with the jaunty skeleton on it—what better way to celebrate a milestone of one's life than to be reminded of the comforting inevitability of death?

As a special treat, I'm going to the Moonlight All-Nite Diner for breakfast, and I will order whatever I want, even if it _isn't breakfast food_. I may even order some pie—though, on second thought, better not risk it.

 

11am

Well, that was a _disaster_!

Halfway through my decadent breakfast of sardine pancakes with whipped topping from a can, that _jerk_ Steve Carlsberg came into the diner and slid into the other side of my booth—the booth, mind you, that I had been enjoying having all to myself. I usually just sit at the counter, but today I wanted to be able to buy songs on the jukebox without getting up, and booths have those miniature ones. Right as that old favourite 'I'll Be Glad When You're Dead, You Rascal You' came on ( _appropriate_ ), Steve sat down right across from me, without asking, and looked at me with his jerk-y, self-satisfied face. I suppose he only has the one face—very few people can afford extras, even for special occasions—and I shouldn't blame him, but I do anyway.

'What do _you_ want, _Steve_?' I said, gesturing menacingly with my fork so he knew I meant business.

'I saw you through the window,' he said. 'Just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.'

'You could have done that from a distance of at _least_ one hundred yards,' I said. 'And you know what, some people—and this may shock you, Steve—but some people, _polite_ people who don't elbow in on someone's contentedly solitary birthday breakfast, just send a card.'

'Got a present for you, though,' he said, 'and I couldn't mail it because it's on the Class-4 Dangerous Goods list.'

I narrowed my eyes. 'Are you trying to assassinate me? Because if so, this is a paltry attempt. You could have left it at the station anonymously. Hell, you could have left it at my door. Everyone knows where I live.'

'Your neighbour doesn't like me—you know, the creepy pale man.'

'Dragomir is not creepy—but now that you mention it, _I_ don't like you, Steve. Please leave me alone.'

He set a small gift bag on the formica tabletop between us, alongside the the little carafe of pancake syrup. 'You don't have to open it now.' He got out a folded piece of paper—a municipal form, by its bile-yellow colour—and flattened it out before presenting it to me. 'I've already done the mandatory gift report, all you have to do is sign it.' He obscured the top portion so I couldn't read what it was he had given me. I sighed, got out a pen, and signed on the UNSUSPECTING RECIPIENT line, pricked my finger and smudged the resulting drop of blood across the appropriate ticky-box.

'There, are you happy? May I eat my pancakes before they get cold?' This comment was merely intended to needle him, of course, for everyone knows that the Moonlight All-Nite Diner's food is ever warmed from within by eldritch fires, undetectable by human eyes.

'Sure,' he said, getting up. 'Happy birthday, Ceese.'

'Up yours,' I said cheerfully, waving goodbye in what can only be described as a pointed manner.

'Any time you like,' said Steve, winking. Ugh, what a _creep_. 'You have my number.'

'Still 666, is it?' I quipped.

Steve laughed, and it sounded genuine. 'Have a good birthday, asshole. Say hi to your boyfriend for me.' And he left.

This got me thinking—so much so, in fact, that I barely tasted the rest of my pancakes, so absorbed was I in wondering. _Was_ Carlos my boyfriend? Were we, as the saying goes, 'going steady'? I had the impression that someone was supposed to give the other person their Thespian pin or Varsity ring. Or was that only straight people? And why wasn't there a manual one could consult on these matters? Then I remembered there had been, once, but that it had been banned, and its author punished with eternal feebleness for her crime.

It was at that moment I realised what I needed to do.

I needed to go see Old Woman Josie.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of foreshadowing in this chapter. (And new voices in the recording--I couldn't help it. Especially with Old Woman Josie). Also be on the lookout for the black angel's Southern hospitality, chronophilia, Magic School Bus Carlos, and a special guest appearance by the Sheriff's Secret Police.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like this story, you can download the recordings here: https://soundcloud.com/malacophilous/

_You can listen to the performance of this chapter[here](https://soundcloud.com/malacophilous/from-the-diary-of-cecil-2).  
_

Wednesday, 10:15pm

Dear Diary,

I just got out of the booth, having gone straight to air after visiting Old Woman Josie. I hope I have not forgotten any pertinent (or impertinent) details in the intervening hour.

I went to her house out by the car lot—surrounded as always with its heavenly light, indicating that the angels were in residence—and knocked on the door. One angel was sitting on the porch, smoking. It was not using its mouth, as it didn't seem to _have_ a mouth, but was inhaling and exhaling smoke from an empty, perfectly spherical hole in the palm of its hand, which led to nowhere. Also there didn't seem to be a cigarette in that hand, or indeed anywhere nearby, so perhaps it was simply on fire inside of its body somewhere, or on another plane. One never knows with angels.

'Afternoon, Erica,' I said.

The angel opened its not-mouth and made a sound so holy my eyes began to bleed.

'I _do_ apologise— _Erika_. My mistake. You can really hear the difference, can't you?'

' ~~ _ **SKKKKKKKKK**_~~ ,' it said.

The black angel answered the door. At least _he_ had a mouth, and spoke in a more common way that didn't cause me to bleed any further or weep uncontrollably under the weight of the heavenly Presence. I suppose some angels are trained to speak directly to humans—they are _messengers_ , after all. You can't very well deliver certain messages while making a person's bones dissolve and their minds crack open to flood with a searing, other-worldly light, now, can you?

'Hi Cecil,' said the black angel, who—and I didn't think to mention this on the radio and some people were confused—is black like a bottomless pit in a black cave in the middle of the blackest night, not black like, for example, Morgan Freeman. 'Come on in, Jo's in the shower but she'll be out soon.' I was unaware that the angels called Old Woman Josie by a nickname, or perhaps it was just Erika. I wonder if they have a special relationship. 'You want a Coke or something?'

'No thanks,' I said, taking a seat where he had indicated I should.

'Water?'

'Nope.'

'I make a mean Cosmopolitan.'

'No, thank you, Erika, I'm not thirsty just now.'

'A mortal's got to stay hydrated,' said the angel ominously, but in a friendly way, 'in these uncertain times.'

Once Old Woman Josie was done showering and had dressed in a housecoat and fluffy slippers shaped like cartoon pigs, she met us in the living room and sat in an old, sagging armchair which was draped with antimacassars crocheted from the hair of her forefathers, as was popular in her prime.

'Why, young Mr Baldwin, what can I do for you, dear? Hunting for an exclusive, hmmm? Here to talk to my boys?'

'Are the angels... boys?' I said, unable to contain my journalistic curiosity.

She chuckled a wheezy chuckle and slapped her knee, which cracked a little upon impact. 'Well of course they are, son, exactly one-third of the time. Ain't it obvious?'

'Um, right. Well. I, uh, I actually came to ask about—' I looked over my shoulder, toward the front door, and glanced at each of the windows. They were coated, as they ought to have been, with their ceremonial glazing, which gleamed stickily in the light from the standing lamp. 'Your book,' I mouthed emphatically.

'My _what_ , muffin?'

' _Brrk_ ,' I said through clenched teeth. 'Yr brrrk.'

'Say again?'

There was a tap on the window. A member of the Sheriff's Secret Police smiled and waved when we looked over. 'Sorry to interrupt, Cecil, but could you speak up?' he said loudly, gesturing in a sort of resigned, _what're you gonna do?_ way to the long-range recording device in his hand, its shiny plastic dish wobbly-looking through the window glaze.

Old Woman Josie patted my hand. 'Yes, _do_ speak up, honey-lamb, otherwise I'll get a citation for muttering, and that'll ruin my winning streak for Most Clearly Enunciated Citizen of the Year!'

'She's won every year since she was one hundred and six,' said Erika.

I shrugged apologetically. 'I simply didn't think it was appropriate to discuss at municipally-mandated conversational volume.' I sighed, prepared for the worst. 'I came to discuss your book. The one that got you...' I trailed off, not wanting to probe a sensitive topic.

'The one what they aged me forever for? Oh, sweetpea, that's water under the bridge in someplace that's got water and bridges, don't you worry your head. What's done is done, and all that sort of nonsense, and I was told as long as I didn't write it down again I could discuss it with anybody I wanted so long as I donate blood afterwards.'

'Oh,' I said, relieved. 'That's fine, then. I was worried!'

We then went on to talk about the book in question, which had been titled _How To Build Successful Relationships In Your Short, Meaningless Life: An Ultimately Futile Guide Because We're All Going To Die Alone, Anyway._ I have to say, it sounded like a _delightful_ read, and I wished, rather rebelliously, that it hadn't been wiped from existence by the City Council.

'The key thing, I think, the thing that really puts the last nail in the good, strong coffin you want a relationship to be,' she told me, 'is communication. You gotta tell your man—and by the way I saw him this morning when Erika and I went to Ralph's for butter and eggs, and boy he was looking just as _fine_ as the day, hmmm-mm! You got yourself a _gorgeous_ slab of—'

'What was it that I needed to tell him?'

'Sorry, you know me, honey-child, I get carried away! What was I saying? Right, you gotta tell you man what you like about him. Tell him why you want to be with him, see? He's gotta hear it from you what him being in your life means to you, and how him being here has changed the way see the world, understand? Otherwise you just gotta wait for him to guess. And some people—I'm sure I don't need to tell _you_ this, sugar—but some people guess wrong.'

I knew to what she was referring, and it gave me a prickly, shameful feeling on the back of my neck. I decided to press on, ignoring that point. 'So I should compliment him, I suppose? I already do that.'

'Not to his face, you don't, if I know you, young Mr Baldwin. And I _do_ know you. You talk, talk, talk on your little news programme and you tell everybody _else_ what you think, but that ain't gonna fly. That ain't gonna keep this afloat, understand? Tell him all about his face, _to his face._ Tell him what it is about his hair that's so perfect, while you're _touching_ his hair.'

'I haven't yet been brave enough to touch his hair,' I confessed. 'It's like a holy relic, I couldn't. Not without him asking me to.'

'Then I reckon you'd better tell Carlos that, you damn fool boy,' Old Woman Josie fussed, chucking a ball of yarn at me from the basket beside her chair. It bounced off my chest and rolled into the angel's foot, from whence it disappeared with a faint, weary sound of giving up. Erika hiccuped, covered his mouth and said, 'Excuse me.'

'Now, was that all, child, or did you have any other questions? I could go on talking about this for days—I did write a book on the subject, you know.'

'I may come back later,' I said, getting up. 'Right now I need to work on telling him things. Once I get that part down, I'll let you know.'

'You'll let the whole town know, I bet, you poor little lamb.' Old Woman Josie got to her feet and gave me a hug. 'Now, you just do your best, hear?'

'I will. Thank you.'

As I left, the Sheriff's Secret Police Officer who had been documenting the conversation waved as I passed his post by the living room window. 'Go get 'em, tiger!' he said, giving me a double thumbs-up.

So, it seems, my mission is to Communicate With Carlos. I am to tell him what I think; I am to tell him what I feel. I am to tell him what I think and feel _about him_. About _Us_.

I honestly think that I might die.

 

Thursday, 1am

Dear Diary,

As soon as I finished my last entry, I remembered the gift bag that jerk Steve Carlsberg had given me at breakfast. I had thrown it into the back seat of my car and forgotten it, but suddenly my curiosity could not be silenced, so I went down to my car to get it. I passed Carlos by the bank of mailboxes.

'Oh, good you're home!' he said. 'I tried to call you, but my phone started sweating.'

I shrugged and said, 'I was near angels today—I suppose my phone hasn't calmed down. Sorry about that. Is there an emergency? A _science_ emergency?' I smiled eagerly. I know how excited he gets about _those_.

'Not so much,' he replied, laughing a little. 'The Faceless Old Woman secretly living in my studio over the lab left a note on my fridge saying it's your birthday. Also that my soy milk had expired, but that's not important.'

'It's important for avoiding food poisoning,' I said encouragingly. 'What a helpful note!'

'Is it your birthday, or was she just messing with me? Sometimes she writes in the steam on my mirror while I'm in the shower just to freak me out, so I never know if she's being serious.'

I took a moment before responding to imagine—as chastely and respectfully as possible—beautiful Carlos in the shower.

'You're thinking about me in the shower, aren't you?'

'Hmm?' I said distantly.

'You cocked your head to one side, made a sort of purring noise and didn't say anything or blink for two minutes.' Carlos held up his phone, which was still a little sweaty. 'Stopwatch app.'

'You're so _resourceful_ ,' I said. There, I had told him something I liked about him, to his face! That was a good start.

'Anyway, is it your birthday?'

'Yes,' I said. 'I'm fifty-two again.'

Carlos looked confused for a moment, before smiling. 'Wow, I didn't know you were that much older than me.'

'Am I?' It hadn't occurred to me that Carlos had an age, or indeed would ever age. He was like a piece of art, timeless and lovely, only growing more beautiful as mortals around him grew wise, withered and died.

'Yeah, I'm twenty-seven.'

' _Are_ you? Goodness. I had no idea.'

'God, I know, right? You're old enough to be my dad.'

'But I'm not your dad,' I said helpfully. 'I'm your Cecil.'

He laughed. 'Yes, of course. I just meant there's that sort of... age gap thing, you know?'

'I don't know, will you explain it to me in your mellifluous voice?' (Twice now I'd told him something I like about him! At this point I started a list in my head.)

Carlos looked a little bashful. 'It's like... you're old enough to have been my teacher, or something. Stuff like that.'

'Is that,' I chewed the word for a moment, ' _attractive_ , somehow?'

'Yeah,' said Carlos, running one finger slowly down the length of my black silk tie with the jaunty skeleton on it. 'I like that.'

Ah, so he was telling me things he liked about _me_ , too. Good to know we were on the same page.

'Anyway, I have a present for you,' he said.

'You didn't have to,' I told him, grinning.

'Yeah, I did. Can we go upstairs? The present only works if we're inside.'

'Oh,' I said. 'Neat! Sure.'

(Why do I keep saying _neat_? I need to delete that word from my vocabulary forever.)

Diary, I am here to inform you that I got _a lot of kissing_ for my birthday, and Carlos with his shirt off. He has a beautiful scar from when he got his appendix out, and another from a mysterious incident on a school field trip which he declined to explain, and yet another from where he fell off his bike and onto a lumber pile when he was fourteen. They are like bright galaxies against his dark brown skin, and with his permission I kissed them hello. He also has a small tattoo of a school bus on his bicep which he says his friend Tim drew for him; I noted that it was an unusual subject for a tattoo, and he said it was an unusual sort of bus, but that it always reminded him that he should never stop learning, even if he thought he had something figured out.

After a lot of kissing—and I do mean a _lot—_ Carlos said he needed to get home, if that was all right. I told him of course it was all right, and that I had greatly enjoyed his birthday present and wished I had more than one birthday a year, or, if such a thing were possible, even one every _month_. He laughed and kissed my nose.

'This doesn't have to be a birthday-only thing,' said Carlos. 'I was just stuck for a present and that was what I came up with at the last minute.'

'Oh,' I said.

'If you want, we can kiss all the time.'

It was as if Christmas and Unnamed Celebratory Date Upon Which We Are Relieved of Our Life-Debts had decided to happen at the same time as my birthday!

When Carlos saw my joyful expression, he hugged me. 'That's what I like about you, Cecil. You're surrounded by all this... this gore and _weirdness_ , and yet you're still such a sweetheart.'

'I am?' I asked. Carlos thought I was a sweetheart. I would remember this moment forever.

'There's something so young about you. If you hadn't told me, I wouldn't believe you were fifty-two.'

'You believe me?' I was so used to him not taking me seriously, I was surprised.

He kissed my cheek. 'I believe everything you tell me, now.'

'But what about healthy scepticism, what about the scientific method? Does this mean I can't be your teacher?' I said, wiggling an eyebrow.

'I don't know, does your eyebrow always go that far off to the side?' Carlos asked.

'Hmm? Oh, I suppose it does.' I held it down to make it stop wiggling.

I was so happy I had forgotten about the gift bag in my car, but when I lingeringly walked Carlos back out to the parking lot, I remembered it on my way back, its little tuft of Mylar stuffing catching the light from the street lamp.

I got the bag out of the car. I opened it right there in the parking lot.

Inside the bag, wrapped in white tissue paper, was a small, heavy thing, about the size of a peach pit, but considerably heavier. I unwrapped the flimsy tissue, hands trembling for a reason I could not define.

Inside the tissue paper was a note, tied round the small, heavy thing with a ribbon. The note said, _I've been meaning to give you this for a long time_.

In my hand was a rare, shining black opal, about the size of my thumb. An opal—that grand and ancient symbol of devotion—that had the obvious hallmarks of having been grown from living bone, harvested from a living person. An opal _from Steve Carlsberg._

Well, _that_ was weird.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil contemplates opals and the ethical implications thereof, gets a special invitation, makes a list of things he likes about Carlos and should tell him to his face, gets a visit from his neighbour--that pale man, Dragomir--and is assigned a new station intern. Meanwhile, Carlos does some more digging into Cecil's alleged past. Also, what the HELL, Steve?

_You can listen to the performance of this chapter[here](https://soundcloud.com/malacophilous/from-the-diary-of-cecil-3)._

Thursday, 12pm

Dear Diary,

I struggled fiercely for sleep, but could not capture it for my consumption, even when I used my best net. The void, black and orange outside my window past the eternally-falling bony petals, seemed more existentially staggering, somehow. Bigger. I felt much smaller than I was. My limbs hung strangely from my body, as if I were a doll repaired inexpertly with the parts of another toy—which, as far as I can tell, I might very well be. I climbed out onto the fire escape, dangled my feet off the edge, and had all of the cigarettes.

I mean, what the _hell_ , Steve?

I've never been given an opal before now. They take such determination to cultivate, you see. You can make an opal from various species of plant, which you murder and dismember with a flint knife and then subject to a complex process of wintering, ascetic despair, and unholy baptism. Or, as is somewhat simpler but far more _personally_ demanding, with diligent practice one can consciously coax a spur of bone from any part of a body they choose—usually the wrist—and whisper precious affirmations to it hourly until such a time as the bone has fully realised its potential. This is usually done to dead bodies and young children, because they can't interfere with the process, but the desert climate makes it difficult to grow them to anywhere near an impressive size, as decay and puberty set in too quickly, and thus the best way to grow a human opal is to do it oneself. When properly executed this latter method creates the most flattering of all opals, for any sour thought could turn its lustre cloudy, and thus the person growing it must think kindly of its eventual recipient the entire time to ensure a beautiful result. This, apparently, was what Steve had done—for approximately ten months, judging by the opal's size. This, from a man who doesn't have the wherewithal to replace the hubcaps of his tan Corolla.

Seriously, _what the hell_ , Steve? I thought we had a mutual agreement to despise each other! I thought our hate was _special_! But you had to go and make it weird.

Don't make it weird, Steve. Let's just go back to how things were and pretend this never happened, like most major holidays and the infestation of mind-lice.

 

2pm

Carlos called me from his lab.

'So about where you didn't grow up in Hillsborough County, Florida,' he said, without preamble. He is sometimes like that on the phone, like someone out of a movie. Too busy with intellectual inquiry to bother with 'hello'. I quite fancy that about him. I should tell him that, to his face.

'Yes?' I said. I was eating a muffin at the time, and scrambled to make sure he couldn't hear any crumbs on my face.

'It's obvious that there's no possible way it could have been... Gibsonton, for example. There certainly wouldn't be any records of you there.'

'That is an accurate statement,' I said firmly. 'I have never been, nor will I ever return to Gibsonton, Florida. It is unknown to me. I hesitate to assume it even exists.'

'Right. Gotcha.' I could hear him smiling. 'Pretend we never had this conversation.'

I wonder sometimes, diary, if Carlos entirely understands how pasts _work_. I mean, I know he isn't from here and didn't have the same education that I did, and some people don't get taught about these sort of things for religious or hygienic reasons or whatever the case may be, but you would think that as an adult, and as a _researcher_ , he would be a little more proactive about coming to grips with this very easy concept. Pasts happen exclusively to _other people_ ; each individual can only know that they are experiencing the present. So asking about something as far back as (presumably) forty years ago?—why, that past has been happening to hundreds of other people since then, maybe thousands! I don't have the authority to verify that it happened to me. It's really old, I mean, come _on_. Who remembers being a kid? Who, in point of fact, remembers what happened even ten years ago? I know I don't. Sensible people don't. We are meant to let the dead past bury its dead.

 

2:41pm

Can you re-gift opals? Is that ethical? I've been wondering this because not twenty-four hours before Steve (what the _hell_ , Steve) gave me his opal, which I have since been carrying in my pocket, I had been thinking about procuring one for Carlos. Would an opal lose its weighty symbolism if I didn't personally grow it? Does it become _malevolent_ symbolism? I tried to look it up on the internet, but a high-pitched whistling started coming from my router, after which it melted, the stupid thing. I need to see if Andy the station tech guy might come over and have a look at it for me—I know this model is particularly susceptible to melting, but twice in one month? That's just shoddy craftsmanship.

 

3:28pm

My neighbour Dragomir, who is not at all creepy no matter what that jerk Steve Carlsberg says, poked his head in through my front door, which I had left open to let our building's complimentary midday wasp swarm move about freely as it pleased.

'Hi Cecil,' he said through his thick black balaclava, eyes obscured behind his completely opaque black goggles—the ones with the fancy green strap. 'I got a piece of your mail again.' He handed me an envelope with one black-gloved, skeletal hand, and when his fingers brushed mine they were as cold as ice. What a pleasant fellow!

'Thanks, Dragomir. You know, sometimes I wonder if they mix up mail just to get neighbours to make friends with each other? Just last week I got a copy of BUST magazine that was supposed to be delivered to Jenny Mercer in 5A, and when I went over to give it to her, she was dead! Fancy that.'

'That Jenny's a quirky one. Always turning up dead.'

'We had a really nice conversation.'

'Yeah, she's a cool lady. I hear she does a fantastic coffee cake.' Dragomir made a noise like smiling, for my benefit, which he often does during daytime interactions when his face must be shrouded. 'Well, I should get back, Robbie will be waking up soon.'

'How's he doing, by the way?' I asked.

'Oh, you know,' Dragomir rolled his eyes. 'Fledglings, they cry and cry and cling to you and then insist they don't need you anymore. Not two months ago I had to feed him out of my own mouth like a defenceless baby bird, and now he's decided he's Mr Fancypants Lord of the Coven. Tchah!'

I shook my head sympathetically. 'Isn't that always the way?'

After he left, I looked at the envelope he had brought me. It was made of heavy, textured paper with black trim, and bore a black wax seal stamped with a profane crest, so I knew it was going to be exciting news. I opened it, and the message said:

_We cordially yet insistently invite you to the Dehydration Comics thirtieth anniversary bash, this Saturday at 9pm. Special guests will include the astral projection of Brian Michael Bendis, That One Animator Whose Style Has Gotten Popular Recently and Whom You Really Like, and local celebrity Moseze Jolaoso, author and illustrator of the acclaimed Unwilling Sword series, who has recently been released from re-education and is eager to learn all about those comics of hers that we know and love and have not been chemically altered to forget._

_Suggested attire is black tie, twist tie, rail-road tie, zip tie, hog tie, or any kind of tie, really, we're not picky. If you do not own a tie, we will give you the one from the lost and found box (it has embroidered golf clubs on it, and a trendy bloodstain)._

_We ask that mythical creatures submit to a pat-down at the door—we all remember what happened at the_ _ twenty-fifth _ _anniversary bash. There will be an open bar, vegan hors d'oeuvres, and musical entertainment by local swingcore ensemble Corky Ballcock and His Theological Accident._

_Plus one, to one and three quarters._

Well! Now I have ~~a neat th~~ something to tell Carlos.

 

3:50pm

Things I have told Carlos that I like about him, to his face:

  1. He is so resourceful.

  2. He has a mellifluous voice and I want him to use it to regale me with educational subjects.




Things I have _not yet_ told Carlos that I like about him, to his face, but that I ought to tell him:

  1. His hair is like 90% cacao chocolate mousse, if mousse could be tousled attractively by the desert breeze. It is dark and roiling like the river Styx, and I long to navigate it into the afterlife. The tiny ringlets just behind his ears make my knees weak.

  2. His teeth are straight and perfect to a point where it's pretty obvious that he had braces as a child. Imagining Carlos with those shiny steel-or-titanium brackets, bands, and wires adorning his delicious mouth gets me rather flustered. I _adore_ braces, and I have always wanted some myself, even though my teeth are basically fine the way they are—if you don't count all the extra ones that grew in behind the bottom row, which aren't really a thing braces could correct. Can you get braces for aesthetic reasons? I don't think my dental plan would cover that. Maybe I could ask Jim the fabricator, down at the metal shop, to whip up something for me. I wonder if Carlos wears a retainer to bed? Nngh, I need to stop having such inflammatory thoughts, or I won't get _anything_ done.

  3. When Carlos starts a phone conversation like someone out of a movie I feel like something terribly exciting is about to happen, like a heist, or a rainstorm, or picking out a new shampoo. Three days ago I called him and he answered with 'Go,' and that was so _dynamic,_ my heart rate went right through the roof!

  4. He smells like such beautiful things. His hands smell like basil-lemon soap, and he chews lavender chewing gum, and when I have dared go near his flawless hair I, so unworthy of its presence, seemed to detect a delicate hint of cloves. Carlos is like a garden of sweet, succulent herbs that has sprung up from a crack in the hot, dusty, broken sidewalk of my life. I don't know if it's appropriate to mention that I pay that much attention to how he smells, so I may save this one for later.

  5. Carlos has slanted, scrawling handwriting that unfurls across the page like a delightful panic. It is not like some people's handwriting—for instance, how my handwriting used to be, before pens and pencils were outlawed—where it's so regular and predictable you could almost imagine it being a sans-serif font. No, when Carlos writes something down, it is like whistling to oneself without any particular tune in mind: it fluctuates up and down, and very often starts going off sideways. No two instances of the same letter are formed in the same way. Even if he wrote out one letter a dozen times, none would be alike. How artistic!

  6. Carlos is _concerned for my safety_! I find this unspeakably quaint.

  7. Carlos has several splotches of white across the back of his left hand, wrist, and arm, as if some being from another plane sloshed a bit of paint thinner onto him when his overall colour hadn't yet dried. When he caught me looking at them, Carlos said he used to colour them in with brown marker when he was in school because the other children would laugh at him. I was too appalled to say anything at the time—how could anyone, even a child, mock something so lovely?—but I wanted to tell him that I am glad he does not do that anymore.

  8. Carlos believes what I tell him, now. He said so himself. It made me choke up a little bit, to be honest.

  9. I like that Carlos is starting to understand things that used to alarm him. Like spherical holes, for example. He used to squint at them and then clutch his face, muttering nervously to himself as he turned and walked quickly away, but now he knows they are just three-dimensional portals that remain blankly facing you no matter from what angle you look at them. Gosh, he's so _tough_ , getting over his phobias like that. My brave, brave Carlos!

  10. Everything about Carlos. _Everything_. (Expand upon this point later.)




 

6pm

Diary, today I received a new station intern! Since Intern Paolo hasn't been the same after his participation in the Summer Reading Program, Station Management has seen fit to provide me with a newer model. Now, it must be said, Dana is still technically an intern, but she's doing field work and, needless to say, can't make photocopies or brew the coffee from her strategic journalistic position within the Dog Park.

My new intern is Marietta's girlfriend with the luxurious golden beard! Her name is Donnie, and she has already proven herself to be very competent. We'd never spoken before today, and I felt compelled to compliment her on her beard since I hadn't yet had the opportunity.

'It really is lovely,' I told her.

'Thanks,' she said, 'I made it myself. You should try it sometime, it's easy as falling off a log.'

I fidgeted a little with my own beard, which is quite small and unimpressive compared to hers, and realised I have never fallen off a log and might find the task to be of above-average difficulty. 'Oh, I don't know. It seems like a lot of work.'

Donnie made a dismissive gesture. 'All you have to do is embrace the fact that hair comes out of your face. It comes more willingly if you don't fight it or pay it any attention.' And then she helped me put a little bead in my own beard. It doesn't stay in very well, so I have to be sure not to wave my chin around too much, but for the time being I have a small purple turtle woven onto my face. I have named it Sparky. I hope Carlos likes it.

In other news, I still have that jerk Steve Carlsberg's opal in my pocket. It's kind of nice to have a small, smooth thing in my pocket that I can turn over in my fingers while I'm talking or waiting in line for something. I have this funny little imaginary scenario that I play out in my head, that every time I turn the opal over or squeeze it, it's like it's happening to Steve. I have been flicking it with my thumbnail a lot. I imagine Steve saying 'ow!'

 

10:30pm

Carlos called me again, just after I went off the air.

'Cecil,' he said. He sounded worried. His voice is so sweet and soft when he sounds worried, but he might take that the wrong way, so I haven't mentioned it. 'Cecil,' he said, 'you'll never guess what I'm holding.'

Was this a... a _dirty_ phone call? If so, why was he worried? Was I honestly supposed to guess, or was this simply an introductory statement?

'Go on,' I said, hoping it was the right thing to say.

'I'm holding a print-out,' he said.

'Uh-huh?' I said. Where was this going?

'From the Gibsonton, Florida, archives.'

That was odd. 'Why? It's not like you know anyone from there.'

'Cecil, I need to see you right away,' said Carlos. 'It's your obituary.'

Diary, I was unaware that I had an obituary. What a cool surprise!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil puts together his party outfit, Carlos voices some serious concerns, Cecil tries out some endearments, and Carlos has no end of distressing print-outs. Things are bad. Very, very bad. Is Cecil dead? Yes. But IS he? No. Maybe? We don't know.

_You can listen to the performance of this chapter[here](https://soundcloud.com/malacophilous/from-the-diary-of-cecil-4)._   


Saturday, 11am

Dear Diary,

Friday was cancelled some time in the night, and so now it is less than twelve hours until the Dehydration Comics thirtieth anniversary bash. Twelve hours! How am I supposed to coordinate my ensemble in that amount of time? Lengthy contemplation is essential for crafting the perfect party outfit. Oh dear. I suppose I ought to get to it.

 

11:15am

Should I wear my alligator leather Mary Janes, or my vintage goldfish-heeled go-go boots?

 

11:24am

_Definitely_ the go-go boots. I have fed the goldfish and they perked up a little bit, the sweethearts. Clearly they're excited to be going to such an important event—the left one, Roland, became so elated that he needed to have a bit of a lie-down. He is on his side now, bless him. I'll wake him when it's time to go.

So far I have decided on my orange kilt with the white sequin trim, which gives me an air of sophistication that mere pants cannot, and nicely matches Roland and Wooster. I'm torn between my vinyl doublet and the crocheted spider web poncho I bought myself for my birthday at the street market in the tarantula neighbourhood, because honestly _either_ would make me the belle of the ball. Oh, what the hell, I may just wear both! Intern Donnie says layers are In this season.

I haven't talked about what happened last night, diary! After we spoke, Carlos came by the station with his mysterious print-out while I was doing my end-of-shift tasks.

'I don't know what to make of this,' he said. 'I mean, it's _official_ , and I even found a newspaper headline to go with it. Have a look.'

I took the paper from him, and my fingers brushed his. Oh, those fingers!

I read it aloud, since that helps me focus, and toyed with the opal in my pocket while I did so. ' _Cecil Baldwin, 52, of Gibsonton, died in an industrial accident last Thursday. He is survived by his partner and mother._ Well, then! I had no idea. Are you sure it's me? Cecil is a common enough name.'

'Maybe in Edwardian schoolboy stories,' Carlos said, sounding amused but strained. 'Look at the second page, it's got the news article.'

I checked, and there it was. In bold text, accompanied by a very good photo of me that I don't remember having taken, it said: _**Our Dear Ceese killed in freak accident;**_ _Local radio favourite dies at 52, leaves material possessions to interns._

'That was kind of me!' I said, as always endeavouring to strike a positive note. 'Interns should be able to enjoy as much of the richness of existence while they can, as many of their lives are so very short.'

'Cecil,' said Carlos.

'It sounds like I was pretty popular out there—I even had a _partner_. Was I a cowboy hobbyist? Are there cowboys in Florida? And look at my hair in the picture! It's behaving itself for once. I wonder if I used a different mousse?'

'Cecil, look at me.'

I did look at him. It's one of my favourite pastimes. 'Hmm? Yes?'

'Did you fake your own death?'

I didn't think I had heard him right, so I said, 'I don't think I heard you right. Say again?'

Carlos did one of his long, rattling sighs that shows off his very attractive lung capacity. Who _doesn't_ love a man who can so fully inflate his respiratory organs? 'Cecil, I'm not kidding. _Did you fake your own death?_ This is very serious.'

Well, this was something of a tense moment, diary, as I'm sure you understand. If Carlos didn't grasp the nature of death by this stage of his life, it might be too late to explain it to him. People assume things based on their first impressions, and what they were taught as children, and since a lot of people are afraid of death, it might mean that Carlos thought death was a bad thing, or something to be avoided. It might mean that he was afraid of _me_.

On the other hand, I was pretty sure in that moment, and I'm sure now as I write this, that I'm _not_ dead. I have been working hard my whole life to earn my death, and I think I would know whether I'd gotten it or not!

So I said to him, 'Carlos,' and here I lay a hand on his shoulder, gently, like a portentous raven alighting there to deliver strange prophecies, 'do you honestly think that if I were dead, I would have kept that information from you?'

His eyebrows reached longingly for one another across the space just above his nose. 'You might have had your reasons. Maybe you're on the run from the law.'

I couldn't help but laugh. 'You can't run from the law! The law is always with us, watching, just beneath the first few layers of skin.' I looked at him sombrely. ' _Always_.'

This seemed to comfort him, or at least concern him about something else for long enough that he forgot to be concerned about the other thing.

'If you say so,' he said.

'Do you remember what you told me the other night?' I asked.

'That I used to think that there was such a thing as a toilet ghost?' (We had talked for awhile about his childhood, which was uniformly charming.)

'No—though of course there is—I meant when you said you believe everything I tell you, now.'

Carlos plucked at his shirt-tails, put his hands in his pockets, took them out, twisted his index finger absently, and put his hands back in his pockets again, jingling his keys. 'Right. Yes.' When he swallowed, there was a faint sound from his throat. 'I'm still getting used to all this, forgive me.'

'There's nothing to forgive,' I said, and it seemed like an appropriate time to introduce endearments into our discourse, so I added, 'my little headstone,' which was something I remember an old flame calling me in some mist-shrouded time which I cannot pin down, and that I particularly liked it.

Carlos seemed to like it, too, because before he left to go home and sleep, he shook a little with silent laughter and kissed my cheek. Good choice, me!

 

12:20pm

In more recent news, Carlos has called again, just after I had decided on what combination of my twenty-three collars to wear tonight. He sounds so adorable when he's sleepy, like a freshly-drugged child—be still, my gargling heart!

'So apparently I was exhausted,' said Carlos, 'because I slept for like twenty-two hours.'

'Oh, don't worry, Friday was cancelled,' I reassured him, putting him on speaker-phone so I could continue back-combing my hair. 'You didn't oversleep.'

'You don't sound fazed by this,' he said, sounding resigned, as if to say, _well, of course you don't,_ as well as sounding a little like he was speaking from out of a coffee can, which is normal for someone on speaker-phone, and Saturdays generally.

I shrugged loudly enough so he could hear me. 'I usually get up at four, so I find out early.'

'Really? Jeez, I'm barely sentient at seven.'

'Have you tried sleeping with your head in a paper sack? The Greater Medical Community says it works wonders.'

'No, but good tip. Listen, about last night—'

'You mean Thursday night?'

'Right. Night-before-last, I guess. I know you said you didn't fake your death, and I know I said I believed you, but it was driving me crazy, you know? How the hell did it get into the archives if it didn't happen?'

Sweet Carlos, so intelligent and yet still so naïve, wasn't taking into account the mysterious workings of the government, and I said so. But not the naïve part, because that might sound insensitive.

'But still,' he replied, 'it was weird—weirder than things usually are—so I did some more digging.'

I imagined Carlos labouring away sweatily with a shovel at a mound of hard-packed information. I sighed happily at the thought and tied off a completed section of my hair before saying, 'And what did you discover?'

'I'm coming over,' he said. 'Sorry, I... I can't do this on the phone.'

Remembering that I hadn't yet asked him, I said quickly before he could hang up, 'Carlos, do you want to go to the Dehydration Comics thirtieth anniversary bash with me tonight?'

'Uh, sure,' he said, taken-aback. I heard something shuffling on the end of the line, a chair scraping across the floor. 'But this comes first.'

So I guess he's coming over! I have thrown my opera-length dressing gown over my half-finished outfit so I don't ruin the surprise. I want him to be blown away by my magnificent party clothes at the right moment, and not a second before.

 

3pm

Oh, diary, things are bad. Very, very bad. He just left. We are still going to the party together, but it was a close thing. Also he's upset with me, I think. I don't really know what he looks like when he's upset with me, though, so it may have just been that he needed to sneeze. I don't know how to read people who aren't from here, it's like they're written in some kind of strange, warped alien script and I don't have my reading glasses handy.

When he showed up at the door, I greeted him with a merry cry and a cup of coffee because I knew he was still groggy from sleeping through a cancellation. 'Biscuit of gladness!' I greeted him, throwing myself headlong into the endearments. 'Candy-corn of my heart! Welcome, once again, to my lair.'

He was holding a print-out again. I am starting to not like it when Carlos is holding print-outs.

'Here,' he said, handing it to me and reaching for the coffee like a drowning man reaching for a proffered cup of French-pressed Sumatran blend. 'I need to sit down.' He headed for the fringed hammock.

I glanced down at the sheet of paper in my hands. 'What's this? More findings?'

'Just read it,' he said, struggling into the hammock and yet not spilling a drop of his coffee. He is so graceful.

I read aloud:

_Cecil 'Ceese' Baldwin, 52, of Gibsonton, beloved NPR host and local benefactor, has died as a result of a tragic accident which took place near the government compound last Thursday._

_Mr Baldwin, an only child, was born while his mother, Whimsy Baldwin, was travelling cross-country as a performer with Nygma's Sideshow Wonders, and spent his childhood days with conjoined aunts Fancy and Caprice while his mother continued to perform as a contortionist with the aforementioned carnival._

_As a child, Ceese excelled in school and was well advanced in verbal communication for his age, but his dyslexia resulted in a pronounced and lifelong difficulty with the written word. In high school he turned to drama, debate team, and public speaking as an outlet for his oratory talents, and upon reaching the age of sixteen he joined his mother during the following five summers, travelling as a 'talker' for Nygma's, a role for which he seemed to be destined._

_As an adult, he became known and universally well-liked as a National Public Radio presenter, his surreal sense of humour being compared to Monty Python's Flying Circus and The Addams Family, of which he was inordinately fond. His radio career was marked by many memorable publicity stunts for the benefit of charitable organizations, including a scrambled broadcast to raise funds for the Dyslexia Foundation, and a five-part series of thought-provoking interviews and Mr Baldwin's personal accounts regarding life as a carnival worker, meant to raise awareness and engender respect for the rich cultural history of this dying, oft-derided trade._

_Prior to his passing, Mr Baldwin made publicly known his wish for his earthly possessions--including all assets, material goods, and real estate holdings--to be divided equally amongst his station's interns._

_He is survived by his partner of twenty years, Steve Carlsberg, his mother Whimsy, and his godfather and former employer, Mr Nygma._

_It is asked that in lieu of flowers, donations be made to the furthering of public works._

I struggled for articulation. The words swam before me—but, you know, more than they usually do. I didn't know what to say. So I said, 'Gosh.' I said it three more times to make sure I had actually said it, and not just thought it loudly while moving my mouth. Then, in a departure from my usual form, I said, ' _Shit_.'


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Diary, I think it's reasonable to say that in life, a lot of things happen. They happen to people, and are felt most strongly by those to whom they are happening. That having been said, so many things have happened that I have run out of space for anything else to happen to me for awhile. I may just stay in bed until things cease happening so much.'
> 
> Cecil gets advice from an Unusual Source; an Argument (almost) occurs; Big Things happen at the Dehydration Comics thirtieth anniversary bash; Steve isn't a bad guy (or so people claim); and Carlos really IS forward.
> 
> Also, Cecil is a smoker, if you didn't catch that in an earlier chapter.

_You can listen to the performance of this chapter[here](https://soundcloud.com/malacophilous/from-the-diary-of-cecil-5)._  


 

Still Saturday, 4pm

Diary, I feel as if the weight of the universe is slung around my shoulders. That may be because after Carlos left and I despondently returned to styling my hair, the midday wasp swarm my building so courteously provides came in through the open window and settled on the back of my neck. They are friendly fellows and we often have nice chats, but today I am not in the mood. I think one of the smaller ones is reading over my shoulder as I type this. Oh well, I suppose the whole town will find out about it eventually—why not from wasps? Though well-known gossips, wasps rarely embellish their observations, so people take them pretty seriously.

What am I going to do? I am looking at this libellous, this wretched, _loathsome_ print-out, stamped as it is with such rank and hurtful lies, and I may honestly be losing some of my boundless faith in humanity. What sort of person would write this and plant it for Carlos to find? Who could want to sabotage me this badly? It's not like I have enemies, not _really_ _._ I mean, Steve Carlsberg is the most annoying person in the world, and we have a rather acerbic rapport, and it's true we occasionally duel in the street until first blood, but I don't honestly believe that he would do something of this magnitude... _would_ he? Ugh, that is so _typical Steve_.

You know when your face feels heavy and hot like it's melting off, and your veins are all full of sand, and you're questioning everything you thought you knew about a person? I'm having that.

 

4:15pm

I can't let this beat me! Carlos said he will still go with me to the anniversary bash, and I need to put on a brave face. I am a local celebrity, after all, and have been invited to this event so that I may mingle with fans and fellow Night Vale personalities alike; I can't go in there half-made-up and sulking, suspicious of everyone and warily tiptoeing around my date. I need to be strong. I need to be my usual sunny self.

 

4:23pm

OH GOD, WHYYY.

 

4:56pm

I finished dressing and went down to the bodega to get some air and take my mind off things, and met Erika there. He was buying onion soup mix, many pairs of sunglasses, and (to my surprise) condoms.

'Does any of this stuff have real sugar in it anymore?' Erika muttered, while examining the back of a pack of gum. He looked up and eyed my armful of cartons of cigarettes. 'I see you're preparing for the eventual tobacco ban.'

'Oh, these are just for the week,' I said, shuddering at the idea of smoking ever being outlawed. The City Council could take our wheat, and ban involuntary bodily functions, and even wrench the munitions out of the hands of our defenceless schoolchildren, but barring the public from smoking when and where they wanted would trigger a revolution like unto which the world has never seen.

'You seem upset,' said Erika with a knowing look. 'Scientist trouble?'

'I'd rather not discuss the matter,' I said with the utmost dignity, hoping angels couldn't read minds.

Erika shrugged, massive wings jostling a rack of phone cards two aisles away. 'You can always come over and talk to Jo about it. Remember,' he tapped the side of what might have been his nose, ' _communication_.'

Now that I am back home, working my way through my second box of clove cigarillos, I see that Erika has a point—and not just about Carlos. I should communicate more with people, generally. Does anyone who feels like they know me _really_ know me? Do they know what my favourite song is, my favourite organs, what I wash first in the shower? Would they be stunned by the contents of this very diary? Now that I think about it, the people I call my friends don't know me at all. Not Old Woman Josie, not Intern Dana (if she's still alive)--well, that's about it, other than Carlos. I don't really get out a lot.

I need to talk to someone who really understands me, deep down; someone who can understand this awful internal conflict. Someone who knows the _real_ Cecil.

 

6:08pm

'Hiya, chief,' shouted the Sheriff's Secret Police officer assigned to tracking my movements, 'how's tricks?'

'To be honest, tricks are not as wonderful as one might have hoped,' I said, though I tried to maintain a positive note, offering him a smile and a stick of gum. He took the smile and put it in his pocket, but declined the gum because he was in the middle of a cup of coffee and also thirty feet away.

I got a little more comfortable in my position hanging halfway out of my window to see him, two windows along on my neighbour's part of the fire escape. 'Apparently I'm dead in Florida. Can you believe it? I don't _feel_ dead.'

'Ah, but isn't that part of the great illusion?' he observed philosophically.

'I never signed up to be part of any great illusion.' (You'd think there would have been forms.)

'Even so,' he said. 'I mean, _Florida_. Everyone's a little bit dead there, yeah?'

I realised I didn't know the fellow's name even though we've been cordial for years. I needed to communicate. That was the whole point. 'What are you called, anyway?'

'Recon Officer Archie Nutbean, at your service.'

Well, I mean to say, _what_? ' _Nutbean_? Really?'

'Take it up with my ancestors, pal, I didn't have much choice in the matter.'

'How did that even become a name? _Nutbean_. Honestly.'

'You've put your finger on my eternal struggle, friend.' He held up his gas station coffee cup in a solemn salute. 'So you're dead in Florida. How does that change anything here?'

'Carlos might be under the impression that I lied to him,' I said hopelessly, 'or that I'm... divorced, I guess? Previously civilly unified? I don't know how that works. Either way, allegedly I was with someone before I was dead.'

'But death wipes the slate clean, doesn't it? I think it does.' Archie moved aside the earpiece of his headset to scratch inside of his ear, then put it back. 'As long as you didn't keep it from Carlos on purpose, it should be fine.'

'I don't even remember being alive. I mean, being alive before I was dead. Before I was here, being whatever it is I am now.'

'Right.'

'I remember always being here. I went to school here. I know everything there is to know about Night Vale, like I've been here my whole life. But I may have not experienced those things at all. I might not be experiencing anything that I think I am.' I gripped the windowsill. 'Oh, god, what if I'm in a box somewhere and I'm dreaming all of this? What if my life is like _Lost_?' I took a second to get a grip on myself instead of the sill. 'To be honest, I've never even watched _Lost_ , I just know a lot of weird stuff happens and people might be dead, or not.'

Archie made a dismissive gesture. 'Pssh, don't worry about it, I say. Just do your best with the life you have now.'

'But someone from the other life is _here_.' The thought made my stomach clench with dread. 'That's the problem.'

'Who's here?'

'The person from before. My partner.'

Archie raised his eyebrows. 'You a cowboy enthusiast?'

'The very question I asked myself,' I murmured, shaking my head. 'No, you know, partner as in permanent boyfriend. Spouse but not married, possibly a union thing.'

'Well, who is it?'

I didn't even want to say, but I knew that Archie already knew—seeing as he was my constant companion in surveillance—and was just being polite by asking. So it was less of a blow to actually say, if that makes sense. Sometimes it's wonderful to have someone in your life who always knows what you're talking about because they were there, recording your every interaction and movement.

'Steve Carlsberg,' I said with a shiver of horror.

Archie gave me a sympathetic look, which I pocketed for later when I might need it more than I did right then. 'Don't be too hard on yourself, boss. It's not like you asked him to be cowboys with you in _this_ life.' Archie frowned a little. 'Not that there'd be anything _wrong_ with that.'

And diary, I think he has a point. If I dwell too much on my blank, featureless past and what details thereof I can only glean from the descriptions made by potentially sinister strangers, I won't appreciate my blank, featureless future that is yet to be populated with happiness and love.

 

8:34pm

I am about to leave to pick up Carlos at his lab so we can drive to the Dehydration Comics anniversary bash together. At the last minute I decided to wear my light-up brogues instead of my goldfish-heeled go-go boots, because it may be a little chilly tonight and my shoe fish, bless them, don't really do well in cooler temperatures.

After a few finishing touches, my hair is now enormous and teased to perfection. I went with the pink vinyl collar with the little bell on it, because I feel like it ties the whole outfit together. I remember some famous fashion person saying to take off the last thing you put on before walking out the door to make sure an outfit is perfect, so I made sure my eyelids and decorative band-aids and stuff like that went on early. I ended up taking off the fluffy ankle shackles, which—that fashion person was right—wasn't any great loss.

I am walking out the door to go get Carlos!

 

Sunday, 3:22am

Diary, I think it's reasonable to say that in life, a lot of things happen. They happen to people, and are felt most strongly by those to whom they are happening. That having been said, so many things have happened that I have run out of space for anything else to happen to me for awhile. I may just stay in bed until things cease happening so much.

But I should start at the beginning, shouldn't I?

When I pulled up outside his lab next to Big Rico's Pizza, Carlos was waiting for me, leaning against the closed door, and he was _so beautiful_. He was wearing a shirt with buttons and a jacket with sleeves and pants of some kind and it was all glorious and matched. I don't think he could have looked any more put-together if someone had literally assembled him right there while I was watching.

'Hi,' he said when he got into the car. I noted that he was not holding any print-outs, and this made the moment complete. 'You look... interesting. In a good way.' (Oh, diary, that is all I ever want to look. He is so spot-on with his compliments!)

'You look Carlos,' I said.

'I think you forgot a word or two in there.'

'Oh, I forgot to mention—I've decided that your name is synonymous with _gorgeous_. I hope it's all right that I've started using it that way.'

Carlos might have been blushing, or smiling, but I couldn't tell because he had covered his face with his hand and sort of leaned into it. 'Right. Of course you have. That's... fine.'

I backed out of the parking lot and drove for awhile, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel and humming a little. I was convinced that everything would be okay. We would have fun at the party; we would enjoy the open bar and vegan hors d'oeuvres and musical entertainment, and when it was over we might enjoy some kissing together. All was well.

But soon, all was not well. Even if I had dug a well right there, it would not have alleviated how not-well things became.

'Cecil,' said Carlos. 'I've been thinking.'

I was fine with talking about work, of course, but apparently that wasn't what that segue meant in this particular context. Sometimes I feel like I need a Carlos-to-Cecil pocket dictionary.

'I've been thinking,' he said, 'about you and Steve.'

'What about me and Steve? There is no me and Steve. We don't _anything_ together.'

'That's the thing,' said Carlos, though it obviously _wasn't_ a thing and he was just in denial. 'You're on good terms with everybody in town, from the vagrants to the City Council. And yet there's Steve, your arch-enemy. Normal people, even around here, don't have arch-enemies.'

I narrowed my eyes at him while we were stopped at an intersection. 'Are you quoting something? That sounds really familiar. I think Dana posted a gif of that on her Tumblr once.'

He gave me a _look_. 'Does it matter? The point is, you have this openly burning hatred for someone who just seems like a normal guy, you know? He's not some egregious douchebag. He's not excessively irritating. He's just a normal guy with a normal life—normal for this town, anyway. Works in an office. Sensible car. Does his animal sacrifices on time. The only odd things about him are that he seems to notice how weird everything is, and the fact that you're always pissed at him.'

'You just can't reach some people,' I said, hoping we could leave it at that, but of course we couldn't. Carlos is a man of ceaseless inquiry. He never stops. (I can only hope he is as relentlessly determined in other areas.)

'And then,' Carlos continued, 'I find out that you two used to be a pretty serious item.'

'Now, hold on,' I said, perhaps a little louder than was necessary in the confined space of my Dodge Neon, 'we can't prove that.'

'We can, though,' said Carlos, twisting his index finger like he does sometimes when he's nervous. 'I talked to Steve today, after I left your place.'

I resisted the urge to dramatically slam on the brakes and do a double-take. 'What?'

'We had coffee. He's really nice.'

'He was lulling you into a false sense of security so he could poison you. Did you watch your cup the whole time? Some poisons are practically undetectable in coffee.' I lay the back of my right hand against his forehead while I waited to make a turn. 'Are you feverish? You're feverish, aren't you?'

He swatted my hand away, laughing despite himself. 'No! Shut up. He's not a bad guy.'

'He totally is, though.'

'Wonder why you stayed with him for twenty years, then.'

I could actually feel the colour drain from my face and pool somewhere under the gas pedal. 'I refuse to take any responsibility for that. I don't remember it, so it didn't happen.'

'That's not how life works, Cecil.'

'It's how _my_ life has always worked.'

Carlos made a quiet, frustrated noise, but didn't press the issue, and we spent the rest of the drive in something of an uncomfortable silence.

When we got to Dehydration Comics, I presented my invitation to Pinkie Pinkerton, who was acting as the doorman. He had outdone himself outfit-wise, foregoing his usual black for _fancy_ black, and in his ginger updo he wore a fascinator that can only be described as a wrought-iron birdcage which encompassed his entire head, linked to his many piercings by a network of fine silver chains.

'Oh my god, Cecil, you look _amaaaaazing_ ,' Pinkie gushed as he stamped our hands with an unholy sigil to indicate we were there by invitation. He looked a little sulky for a moment and added, 'Hi, Carlos.'

'Thank you, Pinkie,' I said, inspecting the profane shape inked onto the back of my hand, which tingled festively. 'I hope you get to come in once everyone's arrived!'

'Yeah, when the list is all checked off my Secret Police officer has agreed to watch the door so I can mingle.' He grinned, and his braces sparkled. Mmm, braces. 'She's a peach.'

'You're a _nectarine_ ,' I said, wanting to show him I appreciated him, because I am doing my best to communicate more.

He held the door for us and we went in.

'I've never been inside this place before,' said Carlos, looking around curiously. 'Is it always so... er, densely haunted?'

I looked up at the mass of ghosts and assorted spirits congealed near the ceiling, waving to a few I recognised. 'Not often. Isn't it great? They've really pulled out all the stops this year!'

Diary, to be honest the party itself wasn't incredibly eventful. True, there were some interesting speakers, and I convinced Carlos to try a dessert cocktail I made up called the Nancy Highwayman, and I found out that Carlos is apparently a wizard at swing dancing because we _really_ boogied to the musical stylings of Corky Ballcock and His Theological Accident. But aside from those specific details, it was a pretty average party—that is, until Carlos got it into his head to be Mr Pour-Oil-On-The-Troubled-Waters.

'Hey, Cecil,' he said, gesturing in a general way with his fifth Nancy Highwayman, because I am a cocktail genius and really, who doesn't love a drink the main component of which is Godiva chocolate liqueur?

'Hey yourself,' I said in that extra-eloquent way that comes with having quite a bit to drink. 'Wherefore this gesturing?'

'You should talk to him.'

'To whom?' The word struck me as particularly nice, and I said it a few more times to really appreciate the experience. 'Whom. Whom.'

'Steve.'

I intended to cut him off and change the subject, but his lips were sort of puffy from biting them, which he does while he dances, like he's got to hold in some of the energy otherwise he'll burst like a beautiful but overinflated balloon. You can't interrupt lips like that unless it's with your own lips, and at the time I was in a bean bag and couldn't lunge in for a kiss, so I didn't.

'He's just a guy. And you know what? I think you don't actually hate him.'

'Oh, but I do. _So_ much.' 

'Nah, I think you're scared of him. Scared of what he _represents_.'

I had no idea someone could get even more keenly intellectual when inebriated. 'I'm not scared, he's just—'

But Carlos had summoned Steve Carlsberg out of nowhere. It was as if he had popped up out of a trap like something in a play.

'Hello, skunk tank,' I said.

'Salutations, tit-wad,' Steve replied, then, in a friendlier manner, 'evening, Carlos. Enjoying the bash?'

'I'm enjoying the hell out of it,' said Carlos. 'Tell Cecil you're not a super villain, if you'd be so kind?'

I could have told Carlos that no, he could not be so kind, but I kept my mouth shut.

Steve waggled an eyebrow in that disgusting way of his. 'And spoil the fun? It's nice to be a scoundrel to somebody. Keeps me young.'

' _Hey_ ,' Carlos said warningly, 'we talked about this, man. If you're going to be rivals at least have a good reason.'

I glared hard at Steve, and he smirked back.

'Well?' I said, throwing him an expectant look. 'Are you going to struggle vainly to redeem yourself to me, only to realise it's a fruitless venture?'

' _You're_ a fruitless venture,' Steve quipped.

'What I do with my fruit is my business,' I sallied, 'you tramp.'

'Who's calling whom a tramp?' He laughed, but not bitterly as I had expected. 'You're the one going around on your spouse.'

I struggled out of my bean bag to look him square in the face. (And he really does have a square face, diary. One look at his face and a person's first thought is _Yep, this face is the face of a square_.)

'I don't know what you're talking about,' I said through my teeth, but of course I did know what he was talking about, and that was one of those damned print-outs. Had Carlos mentioned it to him? _Why?_ Why would he do such a thing? Did he _want_ to embarrass me? It was all just lies anyway, wasn't it? It was a prank. Somebody was playing a cruel joke on good ol' gullible Cecil. That was all.

But then Steve did an odd thing. He got out his wallet. Was he going to hit me with it? Was he going to perform a citizen's arrest...?

But no, he flipped it open and held it out for me to see. There was a clear plastic picture sleeve in-between the sections where you keep cards. And there was a picture of me, and of Steve, in very nice (if plain) suits. In front of a rainbow banner. There were some flowers also and, in the background, a gentleman with his collar on backwards.

'Huh,' I said, and my brain took a leave of absence. I went and got another drink. I had that one. I got another one and had that, too. A third was on the way.

'Cecil,' said Steve, who was close behind me quite suddenly, speaking over the band's second set. 'Look, I get it.'

'I don't know what there is to _get_ , Steve.'

He squeezed my shoulder, and to my surprise I wasn't repulsed. 'Well, if you'd listen to me once in awhile when I try to tell you what's really going on around here, maybe you wouldn't be so clueless.' 

I didn't feel clueless, I felt _helpless_. Carlos thought I was—I guess?—committing adultery or something, and that I was actually supposed to be in a relationship with Steve, which was one of the last things I would willingly choose to be other than dead or most species of louse.

So I said, 'Go away.'

And he did go away, but not before saying, 'No hard feelings, all right, asshole? Things changed and we couldn't stop it. Nobody could stop it.' He stole one of the cherries out of my fresh cocktail before turning away. 'Call me if you ever want answers.' 

Diary, being at heart a journalist and a questioner of all things, I want answers. I do.

But I sure as hell don't want them from Steve.

I went outside for some air and some smoke mixed with the air. When I put my hand into my pocket for a lighter, my fingers closed around the opal Steve had given me for my birthday, which I was still carrying around for some stupid reason. I chucked it into the street, and when it bounced off the asphalt it caught the neon light from the comic shop sign, and I could have sworn I heard it let out a faint, resonant note. It did not fade from my ears for many minutes.

Carlos tapped me on the shoulder. 'Smoking's bad for you, you know.'

'So is being born, and yet people continue to do it,' I said moodily.

'Not multiple times a day. Not like, back to back.'

I raised a brow. 'You don't know that.'

He sighed, exhaling through tight lips, his cheeks puffed out. 'So,' he said as he deflated, rocking back on his heels. 'You invent great cocktails.'

'I know,' I said, humbly.

'You don't notice how loopy they get you until you've fully looped and it doesn't matter anymore.'

I took a slow drag of my cigarette. 'That's part of their homespun charm.'

Carlos put his arms around my waist and leaned his chin against my shoulder, looking out into the street. 'What's that shiny thing?'

'Piece of someone's bone,' I said. 'Must've dropped it.'

'Huh. Weird.' Carlos took the cigarette out of my hand and had a breath of it.

'I thought you said that was bad for you?'

'Feh,' he noised. 'So are Nancy Highwaymen, and I had eight of those.'

I leaned my head a little against his. 'Just don't let me corrupt you.'

'You won't,' he said, then added thoughtfully, 'let's have sex.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to make your own Nancy Highwaymen, check down in the comments for the recipe!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In life, each person is responsible for communicating what sort of sex (and pizza toppings) they want to have. Two equally weird, kinky queer people can rarely spontaneously fall into bed together. There's planning and discussion to consider, and snacks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helpful note: During college Carlos worked as one of the tour guides on the Jungle Cruise at Disneyland.

_You can listen to the performance of this chapter[here](https://soundcloud.com/malacophilous/from-the-diary-of-cecil-6)._  


 

Sunday, 3pm

Dear Diary,

Trust me when I say I had no intention of leaving you hanging like that—however, being but frail mortal flesh, I needed sleep. I was trying to hold onto consciousness long enough to finish the story, while Carlos snoozed in the hammock and I futilely nursed a cup of coffee, but I mean, I had a _long_ day yesterday. You don't just stay up past dawn after that sort of day. _Especially_ the last part.

I suppose I should pick up where I left off. Where was I? Oh, yes. Here we are.

Carlos said, 'Let's have sex.'

I had been standing there with a cigarette and I was still doing that, looking out into the street where I had thrown Steve Carlsberg's stupid opal, with Carlos hugging me from where he stood behind me, his chin resting on my shoulder. It was really comfortable—you never know how nice it is to have someone's chin there until you find the person whose chin fits there perfectly—and I didn't want to disrupt the moment, but unfortunately the content of Carlos' unexpected remark made me wobble a bit in startlement. That wobble set Carlos off-balance, hug-leaning, as he was, on me for support, and things escalated from there and we ended up in a tangle on the sidewalk outside of Dehydration Comics.

'Oh,' I said. 'That wasn't how I meant to respond.'

'I figured,' said Carlos, helping me up.

I had lost my cigarette in the fierce rush of events, but I felt I should probably focus on using my mouth for talking at the moment. 'Do you mean that?'

'I wouldn't have brought it up if I didn't. It's not like you're pressuring me; you've never even mentioned the possibility.'

'Well,' I said, 'it's not something I really _talk_ about to anyone. I may talk about everything else with everybody, because there is a certain safety in that. You know the old saying: mundane conversation makes comfortable, numerous friends.' It sounded cheap even as I said it, and I remembered the whole reason I was attempting to communicate more was that I'd had one of those _oh dear, I don't seem to have any bosom buddies, do I?_ crises one occasionally has.

'So how about it?'

'Hmm? Oh. Sex. Right.' I didn't quite know how to put this, so I just let it fall out of my face all at once, and the result was a garbled mess.

Carlos squinted and leaned a little closer. 'Sorry, what?'

I covered with a clever clearing of the throat, and repeated myself. 'I said, I don't know if you're expecting the right thing.'

He made a sound like a laugh interrupting a breath on its way out. 'I'm not expecting anything in particular. Look, if you don't want to—'

'That is completely not what's going on,' I reassured him, patting his hand. Then I realised that might seem like a patronising gesture, so I turned the patting into a sort of sensual circling motion. Then one of my bangles got caught on his class ring and pinched my finger, and I stopped.

'Do you have, like, an unusual kink you're worried about discussing?' Carlos asked under his breath, and out of the corner of my eye I saw his assigned Sheriff's Secret Police officer, along with my own Officer Nutbean, lean slightly out of the line of shrubs in which they lurked, twiddling the volume knobs on their listening instruments. Diary, you really have to admire these guys. So devoted to their service to the community! You wouldn't catch _me_ sitting in a bush in the dead of night to record the hushed tones of a hesitant, slightly inebriated proposition. That takes the kind of public-spirited dedication that few possess.

'Nope,' I said at proper conversational volume. 'Preeeetty comfortable with all the unusual ones. Why, do you want to discuss them? If so, I should have my master list ready, for reference. Would you like to go back to my place? My files are there.'

Carlos looked taken aback for a second, then smiled. It was the smile of someone who thought I was kidding, which is the one he usually gives me, so I was used to it. 'Yes. That was the point, yes.'

'You good to drive, there, chief?' Officer Nutbean called from the shadows. He always sounded like he was talking into a tin-can phone.

'Sharp as a tack,' I replied, waving. I knew that if I _wasn't_ , my car wouldn't start. Sometimes it doesn't even start if I'm simply preoccupied by my thoughts. It must be said: the Dodge Neon is one safe little sedan.

Carlos and I got into my car, which started without much fuss, and were on our way.

'I can't help imagining that you keep your kinks in a card catalogue or a,' Carlos paused while I put the car into reverse, and he was shaking a little with amusement, 'a Rolodex or something.'

After a comment like that, I felt terribly silly mentioning my colour-coded index cards (pink for impact, purple for insertables, goldenrod for psychological elements, mint for mind-bending body- and reality-modification, and so forth), so I sidestepped the issue. 'What do _you_ like doing?'

This was clearly more direct than Carlos had been prepared for me to be.

'Oh! Um. Well.'

'Yes?'

'Hmm.'

We drove through several intersections in silence.

'Could I write it down?'

We were at a stop light, then, and I turned and beamed at him. 'Sure!'

He got a flip-top notepad and a pen out of his inside jacket pocket and started writing. Always prepared, my Carlos, and even if he _was_ breaking the law by owning and operating a pen, I found the way he wrote with it to be very pretty, even though his letters were all jammed-together due to the diminutive size of the page.

By the time we got back to my apartment building, Carlos had filled seven little notepad pages front and back, and was still writing when I put the car into park and turned off the engine.

'Boy, you have a lot to say,' I observed pleasantly, fiddling with my key chain, which is a rubber miniature of Thing from _The Addams Family_ , slightly greying at the fingertips from spending so much time in my pockets.

'I try to be specific,' Carlos said, and his list came to a stopping point shortly thereafter. He scanned back over it and seemed pleased, looking up at me and smiling. 'All right, let's head in. In the event that we end up needing them, do you have condoms and stuff?'

I assured him that I did, and he followed me upstairs.

We soon sat in my living room, Carlos in the fringed hammock (which he seems to prefer over the papasan chairs), and I seated on my favourite batik floor cushion.

'Should we trade?' said Carlos. He seemed a little nervous, despite how the platoon of Nancy Highwaymen sloshing about inside him had relaxed his usually somewhat formal demeanour.

Thinking back on his comment in the car, I hesitated. I didn't want to seem demanding or to overwhelm him with information. After all, he had a mere seven or so front-and-back pages, small ones, and here I was with ten categorised index card file boxes. It might have struck him as a trifle excessive for a first time together, so I said, 'If it's all right with you, I'll read yours and then we can discuss what I like that meshes with your list.'

'That's sensible,' he said swinging a little in the hammock, for once looking, despite the slight silvering at his temples, the brief twenty-seven years old that he was.

His list read as follows:

_I like pretending impossible things. I like pretending I've been shrunk to no taller than a spool of thread or something, and then I have to imagine how different the world around me looks, how different things feel, textures. I like to imagine that I've been kidnapped by a monster, or that I have a different personality (just temporarily), or that I have parts that I don't have._

_I like being hastily, messily undressed. Dishevelled. I want to not be able to catch my breath. Sometimes I pretend that I'm drowning to get off. I hope you don't think that's weird._

_I know I already told you but I really like that you're older than me. I like the idea of playing the student to your teacher. Nothing cliché like ooh put me in detention, but more like I'm your star pupil and you're impressed by me._

_I'm not any particular role by default. I like everything, it just depends on when and with whom, and what mood everybody is in._

_I can't get the image out of my head of me kneeling in front of you. I can't quite imagine you giving commands, but maybe suggestions, or those cheerful tips you offer sometimes._

Here, there was a scratched-out sentence or two, and he did not just put a few jagged pen-marks through them, but had scribbled them out to a completely illegible, solid black.

The last line read:

_I want to know what it sounds like when that smooth, measured radio voice comes unhinged._

Once I had finished, I read back over the list again before I said anything. Carlos was casually hugging a throw pillow, still swinging slightly in the hammock, looking up at the glow-in-the-dark star stickers on the ceiling, which weren't glowing just then because the light was on, but nevertheless held the promise of their own illumination.

'This is a great list,' I said, as an opener, because it was. 'I like imagining things, too. I do that all the time, actually. What better place to enjoy oneself than somewhere you can create anything?'

'Never met another adult who plays make-believe. I've always felt like I was being childish or something, because it's different than just typical roleplaying, you know?' Carlos bit his full lower lip for a second before letting it flick back into place. 'Do you think of, like, weird stuff?'

'Oh, I'm not sure if it's _weird_ , per se.' I made a illustrative gesture. 'Seems perfectly normal to me.'

'What kind of things do you pretend?'

I didn't know what the best thing to tell him would be. I sifted through some of the tamer options, and decided on something that didn't seem _too_ shocking. 'I don't know, sometimes I pretend that I have tentacles.'

'Where do you have them?'

'Sometimes it's my arms, or in addition to my arms. Sometimes other places. It does get old after awhile, like when I imagine my face has extra stuff, so I like to try other things more often. I had hooves two weeks ago, that was fun.'

'Huh.' He smiled a little.

'See? Not so weird at all.'

'I guess not.'

'I mean, who _hasn't_ at some point wanted to decide they could squidge around like a jellyfish? That seems to be a pretty universal human interest, squidging.' This made Carlos laugh, and I was rather proud of myself.

'Hey, so what was it that you meant earlier, when you said you thought I expected something?'

I waved the notion away. 'It's nothing, don't trouble yourself with it.'

But Carlos looked Very Serious. 'Cecil, I don't want you to think I have some kind of unreasonable standard I'm holding you to, okay? You may think I'm perfect,' and here he looked deeply self-conscious--it was similar to the expression a tooth makes during a toothache, 'but I'm not, and it doesn't mean I expect you to be.'

We sat and looked at each other, not uncomfortably, for a couple of minutes while I collected my thoughts.

At last I said, at length, 'I was twins but then—I am told, quite gradually—I wasn't.'

Carlos frowned just so, just enough to disturb the smoothness of his brow. 'So you're... correct me if I'm wrong, but are you intersex?'

'It seems unlikely that I would be anything else, what with— _well_. But I've never been told by a professional; that sort of thing was frowned upon in my family. My aunts used to tell me I was like Hermaphroditos, you know, from Greek mythology. He was the son of a silver-tongued messenger and a goddess of beauty, and I was told that was probably why I spoke so well and saw the bright side of everything. But Hermaphroditos didn't _start out_ this way, I mean, the way that I am, so it's not quite the same. Just a nice story to make me feel less odd.' I fidgeted with the little metal spiral of Carlos' notepad. 'That's what I meant when I said you were probably expecting something else. It can be a very troubling surprise, to some people. I wasn't exactly afraid to tell you, because I do trust you, but I have been... frequently disappointed.'

Carlos got out of the hammock, a little unsteadily, and sat down on the floor in front of me.

'I'm not disappointed,' he said, taking both my hands in his, around the notepad. The shape they made together was a little like wisdom. 'That's actually really cool. I don't want to make any assumptions, though, so I definitely need more information before we have sex. How about I call Big Rico's for some pizza and we can talk about stuff more? I don't know about you, but those kale chips and whatever that cashew sushi thing was at the party buffet did _very little_ to offset the cocktails.'

I smiled gratefully. 'I would _love_ to share a pizza with you.'

He took the notepad and slid it a few feet away across the carpet. 'Let's just set that aside for now. You okay?'

'I'm wonderful,' I said, 'because you're still here.'

We playfully bickered over pizza toppings, finally deciding on half pepperoni-pineapple (for Carlos), half goat cheese-basil-honey (for me). Once Carlos had called in the order, he sat on one of the barstools (the one that doesn't wobble) at the high part of the kitchen counter while I poured us some juice.

'Am I allowed to ask questions?' he said.

'Of course! Who am I to bar you from the pursuit of knowledge?'

He shrugged. 'It's a really personal thing, Cecil. You get to decide what's okay and what isn't.'

'I don't mind, ask away.' I put the cap back on the Tropicana bottle and returned it to the fridge. 'What do you want to know?'

He looked tense, and it was clear he didn't know what precisely he could bring himself to ask.

'Er,' he said, then philosophically contemplated his juice and, in conjunction, the transience of interpersonal understanding (like you do).

'Perhaps I should simply give you a tour, as it were, and you can ask questions then?'

Carlos looked relieved. 'Works for me. I don't want to be insensitive or say the wrong thing.'

'I'll tell you, if you do,' I said.

Diary, I am trying my best to remember every word we spoke and everything we did, and I keep needing to stop to think back, and to meditate on the smell of the pizza and the texture of Carlos' very nice jacket, so that I can stay focussed and not lose any important details. Reporting on very personal things, even to one's own diary, is a lot harder than it looks, because your opinions start getting in the way even while it's happening to you. But I try to be objective, as in broadcasting, so it takes a little longer to iron out the proper, unbiased sequence of events.

So. Yes. Pizza happened. And it turns out that Carlos carries black latex gloves with him at all times, in case he has to collect samples—like someone out of a forensics procedural!--and that certainly proved useful for giving him the guided tour. He seemed quite hesitant to start out, not really inquiring much and just letting me explain things while he looked, but after awhile he got more comfortable and asked things like what I preferred to call what bits, and 'On a scale of one to ten, ten being most biologically common among humans, in what way does this particular area behave itself?' He was very polite—perhaps overly so, due to nervousness and not wanting to offend me—and he seemed to catch on quickly and make intuitive guesses. As far as my side of things goes, I didn't feel awkward about it at all, just a little apprehensive about what Carlos thought of everything.

He did occasionally reassure me that he thought how everything is arranged is 'so cool' and 'super interesting', and he gave a few observational compliments like 'this right here is a really pretty colour,' and 'I like this shape in particular'. He is _such_ a sweetheart.

'I feel like something pinned down for dissection,' I said, grinning.

Carlos paused what he was doing and looked up. 'Is that, um, something you're into?'

'I'm not sure, but I'm enjoying being examined, at the very least.'

'Ah. Well, just remember to tell me if I do or say anything you don't like.'

'I doubt that could happen, but I will overcome my scepticism for the good of the mutual experience.'

Carlos moved his hand in an exceptional way, and my breath caught a little.

'Did that hurt?' he asked, all concern and up-tilted brows.

'Quite the opposite,' I said. 'I wouldn't mind if you kept doing that for awhile.' So he did keep doing that, and I was in rather a _state_ a few minutes later.

'You know, this actually isn't so different from what I'm used to,' Carlos noted thoughtfully. 'I mean, biologically speaking everyone has the same structures just moved around a bit by hormone levels and genetic predisposition, but people _are_ sort of taught this erroneous idea that there are two entirely separate realms that are nothing alike, and there's nothing in-between.'

'Hrmurhrr,' I said, to indicate that I was listening.

'But I mean like, this bit,' he indicated it with a slight rotation of his fingers and I clutched at his sleeve so he wouldn't draw back, 'is exactly the same as what I've got, just repositioned a little, you know?'

'Mzz hrbr,' I agreed, encouragingly. (Was he _always_ this talkative during sex? Perhaps it was simply that I stoked his inquisitive fires.)

'Not confusing at all,' he added, curling the ends of his fingers in a motion like sarcastic quotation marks. 'Really very easy to navigate.' He did something with his other hand that made my view of the ceiling pop and fizzle with sparks.

'Eep!' I noised, not very flatteringly, but one cannot always maintain one's conversational adeptness in these situations.

'Good?' asked Carlos, not pausing.

'Yeeeee?' I said.

'Good to know,' he said, and kept at it.

Diary, I am here to tell you that Carlos is Very Good at sex. He is also Very Good at finding where I keep the extra towels, bringing me water when I am hoarse, and that thing where you make your tongue sort of rigid and pointy and only move the end of it. (Is there a name for that? I'm sure there's a name for that.) When I was capable of speech I told him my stance on the subject of all of these things, and he seemed very pleased that he had done a good job.

'Pretty sure we could delve into kink stuff now, if you want,' Carlos said while I was in the bathroom splashing my face. It's surprising how sweaty a person can get when somebody else is doing most of the moving. 'I mean, we could at least discuss your—what did you call it, your index?'

'I feel a bit silly about that,' I confessed, my face in a towel. 'Only I like to keep track of nice things so I don't lose them. I keep a diary for the same reason. If I keep everything in one place, I know where to look when I'm thinking about it, and it doesn't disappear.'

'Don't feel silly,' said Carlos.

I hung the towel neatly on the rod where it goes, the little embroidered jack-o'-lantern facing outwards. 'It's surprisingly easy to forget you like something if you don't do it often.'

'Just so you know,' Carlos said, with that lilt to his voice that he gets when he's feeling shy, 'if there's anything you especially want to do to me, I'm eager to hear about it. You don't just have to work from the list I gave you, that was just supposed to be a rough, preliminary introduction to stuff.'

'Oh, gosh!' I said, for it hadn't occurred to me that things I want to do to Carlos could actually happen. I suppose I am still in somewhat of a state of disbelief about the whole Carlos-is-interested-in-me thing. Which, to be fair, is completely not unexpected, because Carlos is amazing and I am just myself. 'Well, it seems reasonable to have a look around, like you did, before jumping into anything complicated.'

'Right. Good thought.'

'I mean, you don't tell someone your life story before shaking hands, do you?'

'Typically, no.'

Diary, Carlos gives Very Entertaining tours. I sat on my favourite floor cushion and looked up at him, and he posed and gave a dramatic flourish, which was interrupted slightly by him stepping on the spiral of his little notepad, which was still on the floor, and hobbling to one side a bit. But he righted himself beautifully, and spoke in a rather good announcer voice:

'Ladies and gentlemen, or rather gentleman, singular, and no ladies: welcome to Carlos.' He took off his jacket and shirt, making a sweeping gesture towards his own torso. 'First: the top half. Some of you in the audience may recognise a school bus tattoo, an appendectomy scar, the scar from falling off a bike and onto a woodpile, a bellybutton of the innie-outie variety, and a line of fuzz down the middle here that's still trying valiantly to become proper chest hair even though I'm almost thirty and it's a little late for that.' He turned around. 'And here it is, the back side of Carlos! Not quite as interesting as the front side, but it does its best.'

'I think your backside is flawless,' I interjected.

Carlos looked over his shoulder at me in a 'don't you start in on _that_ ' way before turning back around and toeing off his shoes and socks. 'As you can see, there are some feet and toes attached to the end of my legs. Did I tell you I almost lost a toe once? Long story, but my babysitter ended up paying me a considerable amount of hush money not to tell my folks.'

I was having to restrain myself from telling him how completely adorable he was.

He unfastened his belt and trousers, getting one leg out before sort of hopping out of them, with a bit of one pant-leg tangled around his foot. 'As you can see, I wisely wore some Date Underwear.'

I raised my eyebrows. 'I hadn't known there _was_ such a thing.'

'I'm not surprised, seeing as you go commando.'

(I've never really seen the point of underwear unless you wear abrasive clothing, which I don't. Everything I wear is silky or cuddly, and incredibly comfortable. I don't understand why more people don't try to feel as luxurious as possible.)

'Well, it's very nice Date Underwear,' I told Carlos. 'I like the pattern. Are those little candy-corns?'

'Yep.'

Diary, he is truly the man of my dreams.

'Once again we have the back side of Carlos,' he said, turning around in a circle again, 'and there you go.' He shrugged a little and let his arms drop to his sides. 'Would you like to do the honours?'

It's been awhile since I've taken somebody else's underwear off, diary, but I feel like I did pretty well, all things considered. I didn't yank them down too eagerly, nor did I drag it out to the point of annoyance. I didn't, as happened one memorable time with an old flame in my long-ago college days, accidentally snap myself in the eye with the waistband and have to take a break until the swelling went down. Overall I feel I performed admirably as far as underwear removal goes, but of course I shall have to ask Carlos later for a more thorough critique.

There are no words that can adequately describe how Carlos looks without clothes. _Gorgeous_ seems so trifling a description, as does _delicious_ , and _alluring_ , and _super great._ If I could invent an entirely new and unique language, borrowing from no known root words and using only precious gems and strikingly beautiful flowers with which to construct it, and filled a thousand dictionaries with terms never before heard by human ears or enunciated by humans mouths, all to describe how lovely Carlos looks, those words would still not be able to fully convey the depth of his dazzlingness. Also, he smells _really_ nice, like dark woods and herbs. I wonder if it's something fancy from the Body Shop or if he just smells like that by himself. I wouldn't be at all surprised if he did.

I spent a great deal of time just leaning my face adoringly against the front of his thigh as he stood there, and swirling my fingers in little circles in the trail of dark curls leading down from his adorable innie-outie, and Carlos didn't seem to mind.

'You're pretty content down there, aren't you?'

'Mmm,' I said.

'How long do I have to stand here?' 

'Mmmmmm,' I replied, nuzzling.

' _Oh_. Okay, then.'

Diary, Carlos does not make silly, wordless noises like _yeeeeee_. Carlos _curses_. Over the next half-hour he said, in no particular order and a few of them several times:

_God,_

_Yes,_

_**Christ** , Cecil,_

_Right there,_

_Don't you dare stop_ , and

_Fuck,_ among other things, some of which were in what I believe was Castilian Spanish, others of which were in Italian, and none of which I can even _begin_ to fathom how to spell.I was quite surprised by how vocal he was with feedback in the moment, and it was really fun to see what sort of thing he would say when I tried new angles and movements.

When he had finished and convinced me that no, really, I should stop now or he might black out, Carlos shakily got into one of the papasan chairs to catch his breath while I brewed him a cup of tea.

'Where did you learn to do that?' he asked eventually.

'Do what?' I called from the kitchen.

'The sort of curly-swoosh thing while keeping your mouth closed.'

'Not sure,' I said over the kettle whistling, 'but I'm glad it's useful for more than one application.'

'What's the other one?'

'Getting the wrapper off a Snickers when you're tied to a chair.' When he gave me one of those _what the hell are you talking about_ looks, I clarified: 'I was in Boy Scouts.'

While Carlos drank his tea, I read over his list in the notepad again, and we talked about a couple of the things he had written. After quite a conversation about choking and boundaries and pretend-kidnapping, we decided to try some things out in the morning after breakfast—which we did, and it was grand. We also did one of the scenes I briefly outlined on one of the cards from my psychological element kink index, and it was _wonderful._ Carlos was mysterious and a little unnerving and snarky, and I fell in love with him all over again.

And now, it is early evening on this beautiful Sunday, and Carlos left a couple of hours ago to change clothes, feed his fish, and do grocery shopping. I am supposed to be writing up a society gossip column sort of review of the Dehydration Comics anniversary bash last night, to read on the air tomorrow when I resume broadcasting for the week, but I have been lounging around like a cat in the sun, smoking, and eating leftover pizza (and writing this entry, of course), and thinking of how marvellous it is to be alive. Death, though inevitable, can take its sweet time with finding me, if my life is going to continue to be this full of pleasure and happiness. Carlos is mine, and I am his, and even though he sometimes talks with his mouth full, and even though it annoys him when I crack my knuckles, we are happy together.

Not to mention he's a _beast_ in the sack.

 

6:03pm

Carlos sent me a text:

_Don't think you're off the hook about this whole obituary thing, hot stuff. I still have a LOT of questions._

Well, I don't know how he expects me to answer them if I don't _remember_ things! Perhaps I should make things up? Or I could say it happened in a dream. That sometimes works.

 

6:28pm

I heard a strange _tap-thunk_ at the living room window. I got up, hoping it wasn't the kid from 7B with his cherry bombs again, and stuck my head out of the window to see what had bounced off and landed on the fire escape.

It was Steve Carlsberg's opal. The damned thing followed me home!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a really personal chapter for me, as an intersex male person (and also because I gave Our Heroes some kinks of mine); it was hard to write and I struggled with allowing myself to do what I wanted with it, fearing rejection. Much of the post-pizza interaction between Cecil and Carlos is based on actual events, and Carlos' commentary about how Cecil's anatomy is arranged was taken practically verbatim from things my husband told me early on in our relationship about how everyone is made up of the same structures.
> 
> While a few works I've done in the past have touched briefly upon the matter of gender things and anatomical differences across various character interpretations, I'm particularly antsy about this one because of the first-person format of this story, and also because since joining this fandom I've mostly seen 'typical' (as opposed to atypical) male representations of Cecil, and the occasional trans* version (who almost invariably has a 'traditional' transition goal, presentation, etc). I also went out on a limb and gently poked fun at some almost-universal WTNV fan art tropes, a move which felt super risky on top of the already unusual content.
> 
> The point of having this note here is to give the chapter real-life context, and also to remind myself that I managed it, and was able to honestly portray a character (in various ways) as someone like myself, rather than just going along with what people accept as the standard interpretation and remaining invisible and silent.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos does some more snooping into Cecil's past, Cecil becomes a babysitter (sort of), Old Woman Josie and Erika's love is so shippable, queer Norman Rockwell paintings, whatever Dragomir is only... smaller, what happens in Cecil's booth doesn't always stay in the booth, Steve lends a hand in the name of Cecil/Carlos, and Station Management is actually a pretty chill entity that just wants its employees to be happy--but mostly to do their damn jobs.

_You can listen to the performance of this chapter[here](https://soundcloud.com/malacophilous/from-the-diary-of-cecil-7)._

 

Tuesday, 2pm

Dear Diary,

It is a strange thing to realise that your life has changed. One likes to think that life is something steady and solid, the glass into which one's experiences are poured, when really life bobs around like an ice cube, sometimes becoming stuck to other lives, surrounded by a strange flowing substance we cannot define, gradually melting into it, diminishing in size until naught but a sliver remains, at last disappearing entirely, indistinguishable from the many other ice-cube lives which have melted in that glass before.

On second thought, maybe I'm just thirsty.

Mondays I go into work early, and things were so busy that I had no opportunity to contact Carlos. I felt bad about that, diary, because somewhere along the line I got this impression that you're supposed to be constantly talking to someone you've had sex with, if things were nice (which they were, _more_ than nice!) and you're still associating with one another (which of _course_ we are!). Like, if you don't talk for a day or so, that automatically means you're ignoring them, whether that was your intention or not? I don't know. Not sure where I got that idea, but it worried me very much.

But this morning he emailed me!

_Cecil, I did some more digging based on your obituary and found out the following things:_

  1. _A Mr Edmund Nygma still runs a small travelling show. He's apparently in his eighties now, but in all the recent photos I could find he looks way younger than that. Might just have good bones, I don't know._

  2. _A wake was held for you by the carnival. I should say at this point that because of what I've experienced since moving to Night Vale, I'm not ruling out the possibility that you—or some version of you—did actually die. Anyway, you were allegedly cremated and your ashes were scattered by putting them in fireworks and setting them off. Obviously you personally aren't a sheen of ashes spread thinly across Hillsborough County, Florida, so either they cremated the wrong body, a different version of your body, or your death could have been faked. I'm not going to assume that your loved ones knew either way, because I can't find any information on that. Been trying to contact your mother or Nygma, but the numbers I found for them just ring and ring and nobody picks up, and there's a creepy, staticky whispering underneath the tone._

  3. _I can't find evidence of a death certificate, an autopsy, the date of your supposed death—not even the date of the publication of your death announcement, nor the formal obituary, nor that article I showed you. They were in the Gibsonton archives but weren't dated, and I can't find traces of them anywhere else online. I called the archives office but they claim to never have heard of you, and you're not in the system anywhere. This stuff is only on the website. Or_ was _, actually, because when I tried to check back the part of the site where I found them wasn't there anymore. I saved PDFs of everything, so that's okay. Fishy, though._

  4. _I called the station where you used to work, but everyone who used to work with you there—the station manager, the tech people, the interns, the receptionist, the janitor, everybody—is verifiably dead. One of the people I talked to (Daisy Manning in Human Resources) said she_ had _heard of you, but couldn't remember when or from whom._

  5. _I hope this doesn't seem invasive, but I rustled up some of your identifying information so I could keep searching. You know, Social Security number, tax records, stuff like that. I found out your old address in Gibsonton, and the fact that you owned a house with a Steven T. Carlsberg. And yes, I checked on 'our' Steve Carlsberg's middle name. It's Thomas. Pretty sure they're the same Steve._




_I don't want you to freak out about this, Cecil, but I'm going to talk to Steve as soon as I can and see what he knows. This is all so suspicious and weird, I can't NOT investigate. I get it if this upsets you, and I really don't want to do anything to hurt you, but this is important. I hope you can understand._

_Carlos_

_XOXOXXX_

Diary, can you _believe_ this? Not only does Carlos casually use 'whom' and 'nor' in his discourse, but he signed it with two hugs and _five_ kisses. Gosh, he really knows how to make a guy feel like a prince!

Of course I do wish he wouldn't choose to associate with Steve Carlsberg, notorious jerkoff of the highest order and well-known giver of socially awkward gifts, but we cannot control the ones we love; to do so would rob them of their individuality. Who do we think we are, the _government_? Haha, as if! No, I will not impose any of my personal notions on Carlos. He is a free spirit, wild like a mustang or a really excitable moth, constrained only by the boundaries of science, which are less like boundaries and more like, I think, non-Newtonian fluids. If you slap science hard it stays firm, but if you go slowly you can easily stick your finger through it. I wonder if anyone else has noticed this?

 

2:32pm

It's so terribly hot today that the very idea that other people wear underwear is almost physically painful to contemplate. I feel for them, diary, and their strange devotion to locking up their anatomy in the strict confines of tradition.

It's definitely a skirt day. I think I'll wear the breezy one with the embroidered snails.

 

2:51pm

My neighbour Dragomir is going out of town to some kind of meet-up or con this weekend, and has asked me if I can look after his fledgling Robbie, since I typically only work in the evenings and I don't have a lot to do during the day.

I asked, 'But won't he be sleeping during the day and unsupervised at night while I'm doing the show? I thought he was still in the nocturnal phase.'

'Ah, no, he has only just come out of it, which is why he still needs some looking-after. Just yesterday he crawled out of his room at lunchtime, practically like an adult!'

'Good for him! I'm sure that takes a load off your mind.'

Dragomir fluttered a black-gloved, skeletal hand at his throat in a jokingly melodramatic gesture of emotion. Since no one ever sees his face behind his balaclava, gestures like this are helpful, and he's really good at the more theatrical ones. 'My little parasite is growing up!'

So starting on Thursday I'll be playing host to a... well, whatever Dragomir is, only smaller, I guess.

 

3:08pm

I wish I'd thought to ask what Robbie eats. I know Dragomir has mentioned that he used to have to feed Robbie out of his own mouth, but maybe that's a cultural thing. I don't really know where Dragomir is from. Maybe everybody does that, somewhere. Or maybe it's a kink thing? It never occurred to me before now to ask whether Dragomir has fledglings like, _children_ , or in a Vampire Chronicles sort of homoerotic sexual tension way. Not that he's a vampire. I have no idea what he is, other than a swell neighbour who brings me my mail when it accidentally ends up in his mail box, and it seems impolite to ask.

Would a fledgling be okay with like, pitas and hummus? Because that's all I have in the fridge right now, other than Tropicana and jam. I should probably get some shopping done; I am almost out of cigarettes, too.

 

4pm

I ran into Old Woman Josie and Erika at the Ralph's.

'How's your hunk, sweetpea?' Old Woman Josie asked as we companionably checked all the different cartons for broken eggs, because those are the best ones. 'You haven't mentioned him much lately and I'm beginning to wonder if everything's still peachy.'

'Oh, things are great!' I said, setting aside a disappointingly unbroken dozen eggs and picking up another carton to inspect. 'We went to the Dehydration Comics anniversary bash on Saturday, you know.'

'How was it?' Erika asked, having returned from the bread aisle with hot dog buns. I suddenly remembered that the last time I had seen Erika, he had been buying condoms.

'Pretty fun, actually. If Steve Carlsberg hadn't been there, getting his Carlsberg-osity all over me, it would have been better. But you can't have everything in life.'

'Who says?' Erika muttered, pitching in with the egg-hunting efforts.

'Carlos is a wonderful dancer,' I told them, excited to be able to talk about it. 'My mother always said, _you will find a man who will throw you around to swing music, Cecil; the omens all point to it,_ and she was right!'

'I'm just glad you're happy, child. You been _communicating_?' Old Woman Josie asked with a knowing look, waggling her eyebrows until Erika elbowed her good-naturedly and laughed. The sound of the angel's laughter caused _all_ of the eggs to break in unison with a cacophonous clicking sound like a million crabs applauding, and Old Woman Josie and I looked at one another through the haze of holy agony like, _if only we'd known that fifteen minutes ago we'd already be in the freezer section._

'Actually,' I said with a conspiratorial glimmer in my now-somewhat-bloodshot eyes as we piloted our shopping carts toward the ice cream, 'there _has_ been a certain level of mutually beneficial discourse.'

'Ooooer,' said Erika, impressed. 'And here I thought you were completely hopeless.'

Old Woman Josie thwacked him with her handbag, but in a cheery way. 'Hush, you awful boy!'

I rolled my eyes and smiled to show that I wasn't offended, like, _angels will be angels._

'I'll deal with you later,' Old Woman Josie told Erika. 'Now, Cecil, sugar, I have to go pick up my prescription, but you be good now, all right?'

'As always!' I said, and she and Erika went off down the aisle, bickering affectionately in hushed voices. They are _so cute._

 

4:18pm

I got a text from Carlos.

_Having a late lunch with Steve at the diner. Don't worry, everything is aboveboard, just wanted to tell you in the spirit of openness._

Diary, I have met the Spirit of Openness and she definitely wouldn't encourage associating with Steve Carlsberg. I feel that Carlos has been woefully misled.

 

4:30pm

I can't concentrate. I have been sitting here trying to record a public service announcement on my four-track to pass the time, but I keep flubbing my lines because all I can think about is Carlos tucked away in the corner booth of the Moonlight All-Nite Diner with Steve, eyes locked across the table, argyle-socked ankles crossing one another's, sharing a malt like something out of a queer Norman Rockwell painting.

Anyone who knows me can verify that I am not a jealous person, and I don't make assumptions about people unless they're _really obvious_ assumptions that everybody makes. But right now I have a pounding in my throat like a drum line and a conviction gripping my heart that Steve Carlsberg is out there trying to make a move on my Carlos.

 

4:41pm

I told myself that I would wait ten minutes before deciding to do anything, and I did that. I waited, like a sensible person. Now I have made a sensible decision: smoke all the cigarettes, and try very hard to have more faith in humanity, or at least what little humanity Steve has.

 

5:12pm

Someone else was out on their fire escape. One apartment over and one floor down (which is not as far away as it sounds), seated with his skinny legs dangling off the edge between the bars, was someone I'd never seen before. I assumed he was with the new family whom I had seen moving in a few days ago. He looked up when he heard me clambering out of the window.

'Can I have one?' he said, indicating my assorted boxes of cigarettes without turning to look at me.

As I am a responsible adult, I said, 'Are you old enough to smoke?'

The boy snorted. 'Anyone's old enough to smoke.'

'I mean, are you _of age_?' From what I could tell he didn't look it, but then again I'm not good at judging these things.

'I dunno, do you age when you're dead?'

I realised I had no idea, and that troubled me. After all, I was fifty-two again this year, just like last year, and Carlos was saying all this stuff about obituaries and cremation and wakes. I mean, normally that kind of thing would be really romantic, but because all that stuff already happened without me knowing about it, I felt weird. So I said to the boy with the skinny legs, 'I suppose that's up for debate.'

'I don't even know if I'm actually dead. There's not like some kind of Cosmo quiz you can take. _What Kind Of Immortality Is Right For You? Turn to page sixty-four to find out!_ '

'Well if you're in existential limbo then I guess it's fine,' I said, generously tossing him an entire box of Nat Shermans. He plucked it out of the air before it could fall to him, almost faster than the eye could follow, and I didn't realise where it had gone for a second until he noisily banged his elbow on the metal railing and let out a long string of colourful profanities.

'That was impressive,' I said, meaning the first bit, not the elbow part.

'You being sarcastic?'

'No, really, that was so fast! _I_ couldn't do that.'

'Yeah, well,' I couldn't tell if he was bashful or resentful without seeing his face, 'comes with the package.' He put a cigarette between his lips, cupping his hands around it and lighting it, though he held no lighter nor match. After a grateful drag, he said, 'You must be Cecil. Daddy listens to your show all the time.'

'Oh?' I said. 'But didn't you just move in last week?'

He laughed. 'Are you kidding? I've been incubating for two years.'

It finally clicked when I realised what apartment he must have climbed out of. 'Ohhh, you're Robbie! I'm putting you up while Dragomir goes to the con.'

'So I hear. Got cable?'

'And HBO.'

'Good.'

This exchange felt a bit abrupt, as is often the case when one speaks to teenagers, so I tried to expand upon the subject. After all, I had to deal with this person being in my home for almost a week; I might as well get to know him. 'Are you into any particular shows?'

'I don't like TV.'

'Oh.'

'If you've got shows you're invested in, you're more likely to leave me alone.'

I was starting to get somewhat of a hostile vibe from the kid. 'I won't bother you, promise. I generally keep to myself.'

'You're nosy as shit and you know it,' Robbie said. His cigarette had gone out, and he re-lit the end in that mysterious way of his.

'I suppose,' I conceded, because I kind of _am_ nosy, come to think of it.

We smoked quietly for several minutes, Robbie kicking his legs now and again, and his padded skateboarding shoes looked enormous on the ends of his spindly legs. He had calves like Pixy Stix.

Then I remembered to ask, 'What do you like to eat?'

'Huh?'

'You're going to be staying with me from Thursday until Monday night, and I assume I'm supposed to feed you.'

Robbie scoffed. 'Daddy doesn't tell you _anything_ , does he? You just blindly agreed. That's cute.'

I felt a sinking feeling at these words. 'Care to tell me what I've gotten myself into, then?'

'Nnnnope.'

'All right.' _Damn_.

Diary, I hope I wasn't that snarky as a teenager; it has a strange effect on adults. For some reason I feel like I am a small child being scolded by an older, cooler kid, even though I'm old enough to be this guy's dad.

 

5:20pm

I mean, come on. I am _totally_ one of the cool kids.

 

5:24pm

Realised I am probably _not_ one of the cool kids. But, and here is the important thing, I am far and away old enough to buy my own alcohol, and I think that trumps being able to pull off a backwards hat with impunity.

Get in me, gin and tonic, balm of my elderly soul!

 

Wednesday, 1:06am

When things start happening in my life, they really start _happening,_ the most important among them being: Carlos.

While I was sitting and drinking and replacing the ribbon of my 1936 Royal portable typewriter on which I craft this fluffy little memoir, I had been pondering why jealousy even exists. Does it demonstrate an inescapable narcissism inherent in the human race? Does it mean that I think I'm somehow a better person than Steve? Surely he was good for _something_. (I promise I am going to get to the part about Carlos in a minute, but the lead-up is important for establishing the tone.)

Work was kind of dull. It was a slow broadcasting day, which happens sometimes; not much had gone on that was newsworthy. I reported on the increasing difficulties presented by the dozens of abandoned cars piling up on busy thoroughfares, their insides dusty and choked with dead, sun-bleached insects, as if they have been vacant for many years. Then there was that PSA about not feeding the dicephalic ducks in Grove Park. To fill air time I read some poems that I had carved into the underside of my desk while hiding from Station Management, and gave some helpful tips on how to get various stains out of religious garb, because nothing cheapens a ritual sacrifice like a stubborn blot of mustard on your vestment.

But then Carlos stopped by. I saw him through the glass of my booth, in his evening lab coat, which is a fashionable, slightly darker white than the one he pairs with his daytime ensembles. He waved, and I waved in reply, and since I was taking a coffee break by playing a few pre-recorded announcements back to back, I didn't get the chance to tell my listeners that he was there to see me, even though I _really_ wanted to. I always want to share the exciting events of my life with the faithful ears which nightly drink down my voice like eager throats.

We did some gesturing through the window until Carlos got the message that I wasn't personally on the air and that he could come in, and he slipped through the door after only opening it some of the way, like he was sneaking around.

'Hi,' he said in a hushed voice, which is the voice he typically uses when in the station, as if somehow he could be overheard—which is silly, because everyone's being overheard all of the time, but it's also kind of sweet. 'Are you wearing a skirt?'

'It's 2013, Carlos.'

He raised his eyebrows and shrugged, in a look that said, _you have a point, there._

'I figured you'd be on tenterhooks after I told you I was out with Steve.'

'Me?' I said. 'No way. I just got on with what I was doing, you know,' I twiddled my thumbs, 'busy day. Lots of... things. Going on. Regular things.'

Carlos gave me a look that said he could very clearly imagine me drinking alone in front of my typewriter. 'I know how much you can't stand Steve, so I came by to make it up to you.'

Carlos is so thoughtful! I love his little gestures of affection. Despite not saying much about how he feels, he shows it. He really _does_ care.

'When does your recording run out?' he asked, peering at my computer screen.

I indicated the little digital timer I had on the desk. 'When that reaches zero I have ten seconds to switch on the mic, then I'm live again.'

'Oh, okay. You don't have to turn anything else on?'

'Nope, just the mic. There are pre-sets for this stuff.'

Then Carlos did something I had not been expecting at all: he straddled my lap, which was possible because my chair doesn't have armrests, wove his fingers into my hair and kissed me. My chair leaned back pretty far and swivelled a little so that I bonked my head on the wall, but I didn't mind. Carlos is an amazing kisser, and I like the way his five o'clock shadow feels against my face, and I realised during that particular bit of kissing that a little nub of a scar (about which I had wondered previously) indicates that Carlos once had a lip ring.

I was so absorbed in being kissed, and kissing back, that at the time I didn't think too hard about the fact that Carlos was reaching behind him to fiddle with something on the desk; I thought perhaps he had taken his keys out of his pocket so they wouldn't poke me. I blissfully surrendered myself to what was happening, and was, yes, still a tiny bit tipsy from those pre-dinner gin and tonics, so just then the rest of the world didn't matter to me. Carlos has a way of making me want to throw up my hands and say to hell with my responsibilities. I made the mistake once of doing the responsible thing when Carlos was involved, and it could have very well been the last time I ever saw him alive, so, to be frank, _fuck that noise._

Carlos had both hands in play once again, and was making quick work of the fastenings of my jerkin—a garment which seemed to amuse him, because he smiled against my mouth and I could feel a laugh murmuring in his chest as I pressed my hands to him under the parted lapels of his lab coat. His coat and my jerkin were soon tossed haphazardly off to one side, and Carlos briefly stopped kissing me to haul his t-shirt over his head. This gave me the opportunity to look at him, in the gloaming-dim of my booth, his dark hair lit brassily by the red glow of the exit sign beyond the glass, his profile thrown into sharp relief by the light from my computer screen, giving him a hawkish appearance. He was so beautiful all I could do was stare, as one who has turned a corner and stumbled upon the Northern Lights taking off its shirt.

'What?' he said, still in that hushed way, and I understood that it wasn't fear of eavesdroppers which dropped his voice to such a soft, silken tone when he was in the station with me: it was awe.

'You overflow with wonders,' I said, not even worrying whether it sounded stupid.

Instead of showing his usual embarrassment at being complimented, Carlos took these words as encouragement and latched onto my neck, flicking his tongue against the absolute _perfect_ spot. How did he know right where it was? The skin of his now-bare chest was surprisingly warm beneath my hands, despite the air conditioning, like holding a cup of hot tea on a chilly morning.

'I want to see if I can get you to make the noise again,' Carlos said softly against my neck before he moved and went to work on the exact perfect spot on the opposite side.

'Hhhhh?' I said, hands clutching, dragging down Carlos' back. But then he bit down, right on that electric spot on my neck, and my hips bucked once, of their own volition, and the noise I made was something like, 'yeeeeeee.'

When Carlos detached himself from me he chuckled and said, 'That's it, that's the noise,' and cupped his hand between my thighs through the thin gauze of my skirt.

At some point, many minutes and needy cries later, I was able (however briefly) to regain my capacity for coherent speech, and I asked, 'How did you know about my neck thing?'

Carlos looked at me with a wicked gleam in his eye, and whispered, 'Like I said, I've been talking to Steve.' Then he went back to what he was doing and couldn't talk anymore.

I decided to not think about that point until much later. I cleared my mind of any and all vestiges of the world beyond Carlos, and his mouth, and what it was doing. I let my head fall back against the wall again, a little harder than I should have, because it made me wince and I opened my eyes.

That's when I saw that the light. Literally.

Carlos had been talking to Steve, about—and I hesitate to have to picture this conversation—sex things. And if the information Carlos had been digging up was true, and that Steve were the same as this Steve, then talking about that with him would be a veritable mine of information about what I enjoy.

The red indicator light was on, meaning the mic was on.

I had been on the air, my pleading and helpless gasps broadcasting in real time to anyone who cared to listen, and I hadn't found out about it until I was right on the cusp of orgasm.

That was almost exactly what was written on a goldenrod index card in file box number four: Psychological Elements, subset Surprise, keywords: _spontaneous sex, workplace, exhibitionism._

I honestly don't remember a time when I have come so hard.

Carlos, handsome, scheming devil that he is, got up from where he had been kneeling and spoke into the microphone, his lips still wet: 'This has been a message from the guys at the lab next to Big Rico's Pizza. Let science bring some pleasure into your daily life.' And he stood back and gestured for me to use the mic. It was time for a final statement.

I froze for a moment, still dazed, but noticing how much time I had left of the broadcast I quickly collected my thoughts.

'And on that note, listeners, let my words lead you into the evening. Enjoy the customary two-degree drop in temperature as the sun goes down! Enjoy yourselves, enjoy your loved ones, and those whom you may not love but who bring some spark of joy into your life, whether they mean to or not. These little moments are what elevate us from mere existence to something greater, something which we cannot define. Enjoy, and live. Goodnight, Night Vale,' I said as Carlos stroked my hair, 'good night.'

I switched the mic off and hit play on the closing music, and made sure the appropriate program was next up in the queue. Then, turning to Carlos, I said, though not with any real anger, 'You bastard, Station Management will—'

'Station Management has kindly given me a visitor's pass,' said Carlos.

'You _spoke_ to them? I mean, it? Whichever?'

'We've been emailing. Apparently they thought it would help you stay focussed on talking about the news instead of your personal life if you didn't feel so isolated in here.'

'They _can't_ have meant—they're going to have my ass for this!'

'Not if I have it first.' He grinned cheekily and did finger-guns.

And that, diary, is why I need to keep lube in my desk at the station.

 

2:30am

I have not yet been able to sleep. The opal, which I left on the fire escape, has been leaping up to tap on the window every few minutes. I tried tossing it into the parking lot, but it came back, as if drawn magnetically to my presence.

It keeps whispering, _They are coming, Cecil! They are coming for you!_

What a nuisance.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dana stumbles across an unusually portentous source of help in the now-mountainless desert; Cecil wasn't quite prepared for the irritation of fledgeling-sitting; conspiracy abounds as Carlos tries to reconcile his work, his personal life, and the common factor they share.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carlos uses gender-neutral pronouns in a purely practical context to further obscure the identity of his informant, rather than as an indication of said person's gender or presentation.
> 
> Dragomir chastises Robbie in Romanian, which I do not speak, so any grammatical errors are Google Translate's issue.

_You can listen to the performance of this chapter[here](https://soundcloud.com/malacophilous/from-the-diary-of-cecil-8)._

 

Thursday, 11:14am

(Wednesday was cancelled shortly after 8am. Wednesdays are hard to get the hang of at the best of times, so that's completely understandable.)

Diary, strange things are happening! Strange things are, of course, happening all the time, often in the same room as me or within the fallible meat-cage of my own body, but one becomes so accustomed to such things that they fade to a pleasant drone in the background, like an air conditioner, or the hum when a refrigerator compressor kicks into life two rooms away, or the howling of the damned at the edges of your consciousness when you use Comic Sans or the word _irregardless_. But the strange things of which I speak are new and glossy and well-lit, crisply defined and a little worrying.

One strange thing is that Steve Carlsberg's opal has continued to whisper earnest warnings to me, such as _Don't look at the mystery, Cecil, it will only bring you pain!_ , and _They will come, the fleet-footed assassins, to destroy what you love!_ I had to put it in a jar and put the jar in the freezer so I wouldn't have to listen to its pessimistic mutterings. And to think this depressing little bijou was a birthday present! That's just messed up. But, if we're being honest, what more could be expected of a guy like Steve?

Another strange thing was that I got a series of voicemails from Dana while I was sleeping:

 _Hi Cecil, it's Dana. I think I'm back on a normal plane of reality, but I can't be sure because of the unusual circumstances by which I got back. If I_ _**am** _ _back._

_I was walking towards the mountain in the distance, the one with the blinking red light, when suddenly it disappeared, and that was upsetting because I no longer had a goal to strive for. You know how it feels when you're really determined to get an errand done, but when you show up the store's closed and you're left hanging at a loose end? It was like that, only bigger._

_I didn't know what else to do, so I kept walking until I couldn't anymore. I was so thirsty and tired that I lay down in the sand to rest, and I think I feel asleep. When I was aware of my surroundings again, it was dark, and I was standing. The air felt close, like it had clustered around me to share a secret. I heard murmuring nearby._

_Then a large rectangle opened up in the universe, flooding me with light that was almost blinding, and I cried out, hiding my face in fear. Then I smelled cigar smoke and popcorn, and the earth rang with applause._

_I was in an upright box, sort of like a coffin but not really, set up on a stage lit with paper bag luminaries like the kind the Boy Scouts sell in the fall. There was a small audience of normal-looking people, seated in folding chairs. A gangly red-haired man in a frock coat offered me his hand, which seemed to have too many finger joints, and I stepped down out of the box onto the stage._

_The magician's assistant—a nice lady whose arms stopped just above the wrist—led me off behind a curtain and gave me some water, and explained that the trick only_ _**occasionally** _ _worked like that, and that I was a welcome guest of Enigma's Sideshow Wonders until they could drop me off where I wanted to go. She also offered to charge my phone from their generator, which was a good thing because the battery has been barely hanging on for days now._

_I've been given a hammock to sleep in, in a caravan which I share with a knife-throwing little person whose name I can't pronounce, and an eight-year-old sword-swallower named Cherish. I am told that we are just outside of Desert Bluffs, and that tomorrow we will be moving on to set up camp just outside of Night Vale. Carnies, they assured me, are typically not welcome within city limits, but that's okay because 'those who are meant to see the show always know where to find them'._

_I tried to call my mom but I can't get a hold of her, so if you could let her know that I'm safe and with nice people, I'd really appreciate it. I hope you're well, and I'll talk to you as soon as I can._

Diary, isn't that the same travelling show that was in my so-called obituary? I should call Carlos, he'll want to know about this. But this morning he texted me and said he was taking a personal day and wouldn't be available to talk. I guess I'll just bring it up whenever I see him next. I hope he's enjoying his day off! I wonder what he does when he's not working or with me. I can't imagine Carlos doing regular things, like messing around on Facebook or fraternising with incubi or anything like that. He just seems so devoted to his work! Do scientists dream of their experiments? Do charts scroll past behind their resting eyes?

 

* * *

 

_From the private notes of C.R., VBM field scientist, Project Bernardino Sideshow, Outpost Delta_

 

TUESDAY

Spoke with Agency informant (code name Crown); intel very illuminating. Crown claims to have level seven clearance, which I don't doubt, but I hesitate to believe everything I hear, especially about this particular subject. Crown has been with the Agency since early on, and I'm dying to ask the sort of questions that could get people eliminated, and while Crown doesn't seem the type to put our strategic positions at risk, the possibility of thorough answers under the table is not entirely a remote one, and is tempting as hell. I'm tired of working blind, waiting for things to happen. And all this kowtowing to superiors for even a scrap of information, even permission to do what a normal person does! Who do they think they are, making people submit forms with personal details of dates? It's appalling.

But anyway, enough personal shit. I've been trying to take notes on my findings, so here they are. Spoke to Crown; was told the following things:

  1. Crown is one of the lead observers, and is obviously privy to certain sensitive information. As I suspected, a useful contact to have.

  2. Crown was aware of Person Six before project involvement.

  3. Crown is willing and able to assist me in my personal ventures regarding Person Six, and is willing to go against protocol to help get me in on the ground floor with this whole thing. There would be considerable risk, possibly of a life-threatening variety, but I knew that when I first signed up to work in the field. Mysterious abduction and death? No big deal. Could happen any day now, anyway, and if it does I might as well earn it.

  4. Crown has stated that Person Six, while still technically a personal mission, is no longer a person of interest in... well, in the way Person Six is a person of interest in my research. Crown seemed OK with talking about this, but I felt awkward and a little sad. Clearly ey'd put a lot of emotional effort and work into the early years of the Person Six case. But such is the nature of our profession, right? Emotional distance and self-sufficiency are paramount in this line of work.

  5. Crown insisted that under no circumstances am I to sacrifice my strategic position for the sake of attempting to re-establish the former status quo regarding Person Six. I was told, verbatim, 'I need to maintain this role perfectly, otherwise I'll no longer be useful and will be removed. When observers break too many rules or violate their roles, their positions are eliminated. Earl, Nazr, loads of well-placed behavioural researchers have gotten too close to their charges and been eliminated. Why do you think so many good men disappear?' And I suppose ey's is right, but it still really bothers me. A lot is starting to bother me about this job.




 

 

WEDNESDAY (DAWN)

Met Crown again in the wee hours, got further history on Person Six beyond what I'd been able to suss out on my own (no thanks to our ever-vigilant data censors—keep up the hard work, fellas, and someday you'll _completely_ shackle your pesky field staff!). If any higher-ups find out, I'm toast. We'd both be toast, Crown and I, but ey's clearly willing to risk it for the good of the Project. Well, that's what ey says, anyway, but it seems like more of a personal venture after all, despite eir protests to the contrary. Crown insists that Person Six is no longer eirs to be concerned about beyond the basics of Six being eir assigned case.

I asked Crown what the Six case meant to em, _truly_ , which was probably stupid of me because ey looked at me like I'd just held a knife to eir throat, and said,

'Look, I support you, kid. I'm fine with you taking the personal angle. I'm more than happy for a reason to unburden myself of that. After what I watched Six go through during processing, and what I've been through since coming to work in the field on this case, I just want it to have some kind of happy conclusion, however trite that sounds. It's too fucked up to get any worse, so it _has_ to get better, you know? Somehow.' Ey looked out of the window at the dust blowing by. 'This job really sucks the life out of you—try to get out while you're young, all right? Don't end up like me, the old bitter bastard still clinging to what the Project used to be, back when we had ideals and dreams and clean hands. Back when there was a reason for everything other than _let's see what happens_. Keep your ideals, if you still have any scrap of them. Remember to learn. We don't know everything. We're not fuckin' gods.' Ey wouldn't look at me for a long moment, repeating under eir breath, 'We're not gods.'

I asked what I should do, and Crown told me that as far as the Project was concerned, I should do my job as best I can and keep my nose clean, and that ey would see about getting me bumped up to Level 6 clearance as soon as ey could so as much red tape as possible can be avoided in the coming conversations. And in regard to my personal life, whatever happiness I've found, I should continue to cultivate it, which is good advice either way.

I need to figure out what my priorities are. Do I want to continue doing the work I love, when the cost is being isolated out here without any genuine comfort? Would I be willing to cravenly sacrifice what I love for my own safety? Would that be cowardice or a logical decision? What do I love, and why?

 

* * *

 

2pm

Dragomir came by to drop off Robbie before leaving for his convention. This was the first time I have seen them together, and now I sort of understand what kind of fledgling Robbie is. I overheard them coming up the stairs, my door being open to accommodate the complimentary midday wasp swarm.

'Daddy, why can't I go with you?' Robbie complained, but not in the same surly teenager way with which he had conducted our conversation on Tuesday. 'I can fold myself into the spare suitcase, I've done it before!'

' _Ți-am spus_ _nu_ _, iubitule_.'

'But no one will know I'm there, I'll just stay in the room and read while you're attending panels and stuff. I promise I won't be any trouble—I'll just miss you so much.'

'Hush, _copil_. You must learn to be stronger than this.'

'But Daddy—'

Dragomir interrupted him by knocking on my door-frame. 'Cecil, we have arrived!'

I'd been unintentionally eavesdropping from the kitchen, which is right next to the foyer, so I just poked my head around the corner to welcome them in. I gestured for them to take a seat at the high part of the counter. 'Hi guys, can I get you anything?'

'Have you got any blood?' Robbie asked, surly once more. Apparently all his sweetness was reserved for Dragomir, or perhaps he was irritated because he had chosen to sit on the bar stool that wobbles.

'I've got about six quarts of it,' I said, 'but it's currently in use.'

'What about chalk?'

'Nope, sorry.'

'Magnets? Surely you have magnets.'

This baffled me, but one never knows with teenagers. I plucked a plain magnet from the fridge door and handed it to him, and to my astonishment he bit into it with a sound like bone snapping, and began to chew. Kids these days and their fad foods, right?

'Have, um, have you got everything you need?' I asked, and Robbie rolled his eyes, busy chewing.

'He's packed the essentials,' said Dragomir, 'but he has a key to the apartment in case he's forgotten anything, and also so he can feed the fish.' Dragomir fondly rumpled Robbie's hair, and Robbie leaned into the brief touch like a cat begging to be petted. 'You're going to behave, aren't you, sweet one?'

'Yes, Daddy,' Robbie replied meekly.

'Good boy. I should be back on Monday night, but I'll call ahead if there's a change of plans.'

Dragomir thanked me and left, obviously fighting the urge to look over his shoulder at his fledgling. Robbie and I looked awkwardly at each other for a minute, then awkwardly didn't look at each other for several more.

Then Robbie took from his shirt pocket the box of Nat Sherman's I had given him, said, 'Fancy a fag, then?' and we both realised that we did, in fact, speak one another's language.

 

* * *

 

THURSDAY

Little things I've noticed keep piling up and up to a conclusion I don't want to definitively draw, because if I face that truth then I might no longer be able to remain to enjoy it.

I think I need to take a mental health day.

 

* * *

 

3:22pm

Diary, while I am grateful to be of assistance, and I'm thankful that despite our differences Robbie and I can at least smoke together without wanting to throw each other off the side of the building, it's going to take some time to get used to having this kid around the house.

For example, Robbie just opened the freezer—he's a die-hard ice-cruncher—and took out the jar which now houses that creepy opal.

'What's this?' he said, shaking the jar so that the opal rattled against the glass. From its tightly-sealed prison I could hear the opal wailing, _Abomination! Mockery of humankind!_ , which is the last thing you want to call a house-guest.

'It was a gift,' I told Robbie, 'please don't mess with it.'

'Why's it talking?'

'I don't know.'

'Was it a gag gift, like... you know, a can of Pringles with a live cobra in it, that kind of thing?'

I made a frustrated gesture. 'I wish I knew.'

Diary, why is it that children, immortal and otherwise, always seem to ask questions to which there are no easy answers?

 

* * *

 

THURSDAY (PM)

~~Person Six has~~

OK, I seriously can't do this anymore. I can't carry on like this, I can't keep lying to him, not with what I know now.

But what else can I do? If I tell him, he might hate me—or worse, think I'm crazy and pity me. I feel so helpless. I wish I'd never taken this fucking job. I wish I'd never met him, because if we'd never met then I'd never have to decide whether I should hurt him or not.

I'm supposed to do my best to keep him happy and safe—that's what you _do_ , isn't it? That's the Right Thing to do. But how happy can a person really be when they've been so thoroughly misled? He doesn't know what's real anymore. Nobody here does, and they only think they're happy, because they can't comprehend what they could have had. I'm torn between letting him continue on in pleasant complacency, and having to watch something behind his eyes shatter as he finds out the truth. If he even can find out the truth. I still don't know how far they had to go to prepare him for the Project, and Crown won't tell me because it hurts too much. That's the kind of shit we're dealing with, here.

He deserves so much better than this.

On the other hand, if I compromise my position by telling him the truth, then I'll be eliminated; I pose too much of a risk at this point for the top brass to allow anything else. And if that happens, it would crush him. I don't want to imagine what he might do.

I have to ask myself: If I wanted a life devoid of danger, would I have taken this job in the first place? No, obviously. I thrive on this stuff.

So what I really need to ask is: Am I willing to risk everything—my integrity, my life, the person I ~~love~~ _care about_ —to avoid cracking the façade that keeps him ignorant but protected?

_No._

However foolish this is, however wary I should be of such new feelings, I'd rather we were together and hunted than safe in separate graves of our own making.

You can be safe, or you can be free.

You can be safe, or you can blast a hole through the prison walls and get the fuck out, and I happen to be good with explosives.

Now I just have to figure out how to explain this to Cecil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No questions regarding code names, plot points, or similar subjects will be answered in the comments.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter takes place post-Yellow Helicopters, and contains spoilers.) Cecil realises that Something is Not Right; Old Woman Josie is lost without her Erika; an important message from the Chief of Research; Sheriff's Secret Police Officer Nutbean goes too far; the situation goes from bad to worse, and Carlos is desperate to get Cecil out of there. IT HAS COME. Nygma's Sideshow Wonders has come. COME TO THE SHOW. It will change your life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't had a chance to check out the audio performance of this story over on Soundcloud, now is a good time to backtrack and delve into it. I write this as more of a script than a regular fic, something meant to be heard, and with each successive chapter I've done more and more cool stuff with the recordings. I mention this now because I'm particularly proud of this one; the range of accents and editing tricks really showed me how far I've come as a performer since starting this fic.
> 
> Now that this story nears its end, I want to thank all of you who have gotten this far, especially those who have stuck with me since day one. Your overwhelmingly positive response, particularly to the plot points over which I fretted, has encouraged me to take narrative chances I otherwise wouldn't have, and I've actually let myself take a stab at writing a conspiracy mystery. So, thanks. Treat yourself to some ice cream--you've earned it. You might want to avoid the vanilla, though, it's breathing.

_You can listen to the performance of this chapter[here](https://soundcloud.com/malacophilous/from-the-diary-of-cecil-9)._  


 

Friday, 8am

Dear Diary,

I have a watch. It has hands and a little twisty knob on the side. It has a tiny compass on the face as well as other things. It is a beautiful watch, and most importantly it tells the time, which makes it Very Special. Carlos gave it to me for our one-month anniversary, which makes it _even more_ Very Special. I have been thinking, though, diary. Has it really been a month? Time certainly flies when you're in love.

 

8:15am

Having looked back over my previous entries, it appears that only a week and a half has passed since I was saying we had been together for almost a week. That can't be right, can it?

I shouldn't try to figure these things out before my first cigarette of the day.

 

9:07am

Robbie was out on the fire escape already, spindly legs dangling through the rails (as is his wont). He was wearing big sunglasses and a slouchy black beanie that seemed to want to eclipse his entire head, and as when we had first met his skinny arms were hidden by long black fingerless gloves. Upon seeing all of these elements combined it really hit me that Robbie and Dragomir are the same sort of thing—whatever that thing is, they weren't supposed to have much of themselves showing.

'You look constipated,' said Robbie, in that charming teenager way that disregards all appropriateness, without looking at me. Does the kid have eyes in his elbows, or what? I doubt he could have gotten a permit for those at his age, if he was indeed as young as he looked before becoming immortal—if he _was_ immortal.

'I'm _thinking_ , Robbie, this is a thoughtful face.'

'Have a fag, for the love of god, or go away.' It had already become clear that we couldn't stand each other without the intermediary aid of nicotine.

I tapped a clove out of its black box and lit it. We sat there in the morning heat, bristling with barely-contained dislike, tact maintained only by the smoke we sucked into our lungs.

Robbie sighed longer than I thought a person could go without breathing in again, even a strange person like whatever he happens to be.

'Something the matter?' I said.

He made a sound like a balloon in mourning. 'I miss Daddy.'

I didn't know what to say to that, so I just smoked for awhile.

'What day is it?' I eventually asked, brushing one of the strange tree's perpetually-falling bony petals off my shoulder.

'Friday.'

'When did you come to stay with me?'

Robbie's shoulders took on a posture of irritation. ' _Yesterday_. You taking the piss?'

'No, no, I just had that empty feeling like a day had been cancelled. Or several.'

'Nope, it's definitely Friday.'

And so it is, apparently. I checked the date on my phone, and it says it's Friday, too.

 

9:42am

Old Woman Josie called me.

'Oh, Cecil, honey, I don't know what to do.'

I had never heard her so upset. Old Woman Josie is, as a rule, a genial soul with nary a care in the world. But after the incident with the yellow helicopters, which was only yesterday after all (or was it? I don't remember), she's been a bit on-edge.

'What can I do to help?' I asked.

'I don't know, sugar, I'm trying to keep it together, but...' And to my surprise, she began to cry. 'They left me, they all left me, and he's gone. _My baby's gone_. You're the only person I thought would understand. You,' she blew her nose hard into something, 'you almost lost your Carlos, so you know what it's like.'

'I'm certain Erika will come back,' I said, remembering all the times I had seen Old Woman Josie and the black angel together. They had seemed so happy, so cute and _just right_ for one another. And if I know my other-worldly beings (which I like to think I do at least on a passing-acquaintance level despite the fact that they do not exist), I'm pretty sure Erika loves her. The look in his many eyes, the way the static aura around the angel's hands glowed a particular shade of _Other_ when he was near her made it pretty obvious.

'I don't know if he _can_ ,' Old Woman Josie sniffled. 'Angels don't get to decide, do they? They don't have free will. At least I don't think they do, do they?'

'I'm not sure,' I said, which was true. None of us were supposed to know about the hierarchy of angels or how it all worked, so I mostly ignore the concept entirely whenever it comes up. 'But if you're meant to be together, you will be, that much I do know.'

'Thank you, child, I needed to hear that.'

'Listen, Josie, are you going to be all right? Do you need me to come over?'

'Oh, I should be fine, but thank you anyway.'

'You sure?'

'Uh-huh.' She seemed to pull herself together. 'Just take care of yourself, all right? I think I may take some of my soup over to Larry and see how he is—got a nasty cold, I hear, poor fella. Might take my mind off things to get out of the house.'

'That's a good idea.'

'You going in to work today?'

I hesitated. 'I was told They would call me if They needed me.'

'Capital T They, huh?'

'Unfortunately. Station Management has been removed, or subsumed, by StrexCorp executives.'

'Well, keep your chin up, muffin, things are bound to get better soon, right?'

It seemed she was trying to comfort me as a means of comforting herself, so I said, 'Of course. Everything will be fine.'

 

11am

I have been looking back through your tidy, typewritten pages again, diary, and I am gripped with a suspicion that fills my veins with glutinous horror:

I have been losing time.

Time, with whom I normally get along quite well, has been avoiding me, slipping through my fingers until I no longer know what is when and who has been here for how long. It appears that Time and I are no longer on speaking terms. Who knows what I could have missed? What have I forgotten? How will I know when I _do_ find out what I've forgotten, because I've forgotten it and therefore won't remember?

 

11:37am (as far as I know)

I tried to call Donnie, my intern with the luxurious golden beard. Her number has been disconnected. I realised that I had a different intern, possibly yesterday or before that, but definitely after I had Donnie, and her name started with a V. Beyond that, I don't know.

Is Donnie _dead_?

I found my copy of the first issue of the _Death Knell_ , the zine published by Donnie and Marietta (Big Rico's daughter, Donnie's girlfriend); there is an email address on the back for people who want to send in submissions. I tried to send a message, but I got a MAILER-DAEMON auto-response, saying the address had permanent fatal errors.

As a last resort, I called Big Rico to see if he knew anything about Donnie's whereabouts, or could give me Marietta's number. Big Rico said that he didn't know what I was talking about. He doesn't have a daughter. He's never had kids. 'Biological impossibility, Cecil, sorry,' he said. 'I'm as sterile as an operating room.'

Diary, I am seriously freaking out. I may actually have an actual fit.

 

* * *

 

 **FROM:** NRSCOTT@PROJECTBERNARDINO.VBM.GOV

 **TO:** ALL

 **STATUS:** URGENT

 **SUBJECT:** ATTN ALL VBM RESEARCHERS

 

EXPERIMENT FACELESS BETA HAS BEEN TERMINATED DUE TO UNINTENDED CODEPENDENCE BETWEEN FACELSSS BETA AND GAMMA, IN CONJUNCTION WITH PROLONGED INTERACTION WITH PERSON SIX. SUBJECT HAS BEEN REMOVED FROM TEST SITE.

 

EXP. FACELESS GAMMA CONTINUES; SUBJECT UNAWARE OF BETA TERMINATION. THIS IGNORANCE MUST BE MAINTAINED. AS SUGGESTED BY JOHNSTON AND DEMPSEY FROM OUTPOST THETA, ASSOCIATION BETWEEN FACELESS GAMMA AND PERSON SIX IS CURRENTLY ENCOURAGED. FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS PENDING.

 

EXP. FACELESS ALPHA ENTERS PUBLIC INTEGRATION STAGE, PHASE 4, UNHINDERED. RECEPTION POSITIVE SO FAR, LEADING IN PUBLIC OPINION POLLS. NO CONNECTION BETWEEN ALPHA AND BETA WAS ESTABLISHED OR SUSPECTED PRIOR TO BETA TERMINATION. GAMMA ISOLATED FROM ALPHA. FACELESS GAMMA VIVISECTION, TO BE UNDERTAKEN BY DR. OGBURN, IS SCHEDULED FOR MONDAY MORNING. EVERYTHING PROCEEDS ACCORDING TO PLAN.

 

KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK, GUYS, AND REMEMBER TO SIGN TIM'S RETIREMENT CARD WHEN IT MAKES THE ROUNDS. HAPPY RESEARCHING!

 

_Nolan R. Scott, Ph.D_

_Chief of Research_

_Project Bernardino Sideshow / Project Bernardino Deathwatch_

_Variance Between Mentalities Group_

_Favorite quote from around the office:_

_'Wait, they're calling us the Vague But Menacing Government Agency now?'_

_'Haha, the little guinea pigs got it right for once—vague but menacing is what we aim for!'_

 

* * *

 

12:13pm (that is what my watch says, the watch from Carlos, so it _must_ be right)

I ran into my Sheriff's Secret Police Officer when I went out to get my mail.

'Hiya, Cecil,' he said.

'Afternoon, Officer Nutbean!' I said, trying to keep it light despite the weight of my worries.

'Been kinda chatty up there today,' he said, jerking his thumb in the direction of my apartment.

'Oh, you know. I had some calls to make.'

'You and Dragomir's goth kid getting along?'

'Tolerably well,' I said.

Officer Nutbean squinted out across the parking lot behind his regulation sunglasses as I unlocked my mail box. 'Good, good. That's swell to hear, bud.'

'Hey,' I said, tucking the curled-up bundle of mail under my arm and locking the mail box again, 'I know you may not be able to answer this, but how many of you guys _are_ there, anyway? I mean, in the Secret Police.' I took a moment to concoct a decent white lie. 'Is there ever a vacancy? I'm just curious—a friend of mine says her, uh, daughter's interested in joining up when she graduates.'

A scratchy, distant voice came from the small radio or walkie-talkie that was clipped near the shoulder of his bullet-proof vest. It sounded like, 'Crammer chip rum-runner Larson six, copy?'

Officer Nutbean pressed the button on the side of the device and cocked his head to speak into it. 'Rrroger.' He looked back up at me. 'Well, Cecil, it's hard to say. There are a heckuva lot of folks in Night Vale, aren't there?'

I didn't know why I was asking this stuff. This was dangerous territory, but the words continued to tumble from my mouth like snakes and scorpions in a fairytale. 'But everyone definitely has an officer?'

'Oh, no, just the important cases,' said Officer Nutbean, with a shrug, but almost instantly his face became drawn with terror and he gasped.

I frowned at this sudden change in tone, but before I could ask anything further, a team of men in riot gear emerged from behind the recycling bins, with the sort of heavily-armed posture that lets you know they could kill you ten ways in ten seconds even though they held no visible weapons. They tackled Officer Nutbean to the ground, pinning his arms behind him and stripping off his headset, helmet, walkie-talkie, utility belt, even his regulation sunglasses, and jerking the long-range hearing device from his grip, its plastic dish cracking from the force with which it was wrenched from him. One of the subtly-armed men placed a combat-booted foot hard on the side of Officer Nutbean's face, trapping him on the ground even as he strained against the cuffs on his wrists and the hobbles they placed upon his ankles.

'Afternoon, citizen,' said the man with the boot on Officer Nutbean's face, taking a small pad of forms from one of the many ominously-bulging pockets of his uniform. He took a stub of pencil from behind his ear, which, if nothing else had, would have indicated that these men were acting in an official government capacity. He licked the end of the pencil, flipped open the pad, scribbled a few lines and made three check marks and one X. 'Would you be so kind as to sign this for me.' It wasn't a question. He handed me the pad and pencil.

'With this?' I asked, anxious to be holding so illegal an implement.

'Yessir, on the line just there next to the official seal.'

'With this pencil?'

'Just sign it, sir.'

I was so nervous I longed for a smoke to calm me down, and I could _sense_ that the man was chewing nicotine gum, and my heart reached yearningly upstairs with grabby hands to the pile of cigarette boxes on my coffee table.

I struggled to hold the thing. Even though pens and pencils are currently permitted for the purpose of filling out municipal forms, I still feel uncomfortable using them even for that purpose, especially under scrutiny. I signed my name where indicated; the man snatched the pad and pencil back from me as if I might get ideas if I held them for too long, and tucked them away in a pocket again.

'Thank you for your time,' he said over the sounds of the struggle going on under his boot. 'Please go about your business.'

'It was good seeing you,' I said to Officer Nutbean, crouching slightly and craning my head so he could see me around the man's leg.

'Knock 'em dead, chief!' he replied, and a blacked-out van roared up from the street beyond. Doors were flung open, Officer Nutbean was hustled inside, and the van roared away again, leaving me alone in the parking lot in its exhaust-scented wake. Some dead leaves and a few bony petals scuttled by in the wind, and so did a piece of paper. I jogged over and stepped on it to keep it from getting away, because it's every tenant's responsibility to help keep the parking lot and other common areas tidy. I picked it up.

It said, in a very odd collection of fonts:

 

You!

**Yes, YOU!**

IT HAS COME.

_Nygma's Sideshow Wonders Has Come._

It Is Here For YOU. It Is HERE, and So Are YOU, So Why Not GET ACQUAINTED?

_Magic! Marvels! Strange Feats and Sights Never Before Seen!_

COME TO THE SHOW. **TWO NIGHTS ONLY!**

COME TO THE SHOW. **IT WILL NOT DISAPPOINT YOU!**

COME TO THE SHOW! _**IT WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE.**_

 

Well, I _have_ been trying to think of date ideas, and Carlos was looking up these same people not too long ago—he'd probably be super interested to meet them. And this is the travelling show that found Dana, right? We could pick her up and take her home! And maybe Robbie would like to go, you know, something to take his mind off of missing Dragomir. I think I'll call Carlos and invite him!

 

* * *

 

_From the private notes of C.R., VBM field scientist, Project Bernardino Sideshow, Outpost Delta_

 

FRIDAY

 

The leads over at Deathwatch finally seized power and pushed the merger through. Now the projects are combined, the original aims are even more skewed than they were when I got here, and everything is going to hell. Things were bad before, but now they're exponentially worse. They even pulled the plug on sub-project Holy Terror and are relocating the angels to the Deathwatch side, if you can _believe_ that. What was once a research endeavour for the sake of furthering our knowledge of biology, human resilience and psychological development has now been overrun by the guys studying brand/party loyalty and populace control. (But isn't that _just like_ our government? Ugh.) I mean, it's been coming for a long time—look at the City Council, it's frankly just the project leads having too much fun playing Puppet Master and fucking with people—but this is beyond the pale. _They can't do this._

I know it's all a fabrication, that the history is lie built upon lie, but I've lived here for over a year through all the madness and violence, and despite it being a twisted totalitarian dystopia run by megalomaniacal government-funded scientists who took shit too far, despite all that I _fucking love_ this town, OK? I love the days when the sky is void, I love the weird food and the weird music, I even love the tiny mutants under the bowling alley who tried to kill me, I love the lights over the Arby's, all of it. I love it and Crown loves it, as only outsiders can, as people who know what the rest of the world is actually like, who see the flaws and the really fucked up parts and the murders but still feel that twang of homesickness when thinking about ever having to leave. But I _am_ going to have to leave. If they find out I've defected, that I won't follow orders any longer, I'll be eliminated without question. I'm not going to allow that to happen.

Met with ~~Cr~~ Steve—honestly, at this point I'm never turning in these notes so I might as well stop with the code name bullshit. I asked Steve about how he was able to show Cecil a picture of their ceremony without being eliminated, and he explained that there's a loophole in the legal jargon of his contract and he found a way to get around the rules: as long as he doesn't directly communicate the truth to a test subject verbally or in writing, he can basically do whatever he wants (under the radar, of course). I asked about the opal, and he said it's a lab-created reproduction with a tiny webcam, mic and speaker embedded in it; he can hear and see what's going on wherever Cecil keeps the thing (but last he checked it was in a humming darkness that he suspects is the freezer). Steve says he had it specially made by someone at Outpost Epsilon who's on our side.

_Our side._

It became really _real_ to me right then that yeah, there _are_ sides to this whole thing. I'm on a side, Steve is on that side too, and we're trying to do the right thing, which means the other side is the enemy, right? I used to be on the bad side, without knowing it, simply by virtue of the fact that I didn't know there was anything going on. But now I know. Steve and I are in this together, and we're going to try our damnedest to get Cecil out.

Steve says he has a trustworthy contact nearby who's apprised of the situation and willing to act as coyote—now we just have to get to him, with Cecil in tow, without incident. Steve's going to cut ties and leave with us; he knows the most about Cecil and (we hope) can help rehabilitate him, and also because without Cecil he has no reason to stay. The whole reason Steve came here in the first place was to protect him. He's a good guy. I'm glad we're on the same team.

God, I just wish we could take more people with us. There are so many amazing people here, and they have no idea what they're living through. It almost seems equally cruel to tell them as to leave them in ignorance, but this has to be a covert operation. We're already risking our lives, here. I don't want to put anyone at risk who doesn't have to be. I guess in some cases it's better to not understand the danger you're in than to know without a doubt and be unable to escape it.

 

* * *

 

2:21pm

I called Carlos, and he sounded so relieved and excited to hear from me that I almost blushed. Sometimes even just his tone of voice can be so flattering I don't know what to do with myself.

'Cecil, hi! I'm glad you called—you'll barely believe this, but that travelling show from your obituary is outside of town this weekend and I thought maybe we could go and make a date out of it? You know, get our fortunes told. Eat overpriced funnel cake. See if anything jogs your memory.'

I stood there in the kitchen with the phone against my ear, mouth hanging open because I had been about to ask Carlos the same thing. In that moment of stunned silence I heard the opal hollering from inside the freezer, _DO IIIIIT. GO. IT'LL BE FUN_.

'I found a flier in the parking lot for the same thing!' I said. 'I was actually going to ask you, but you beat me to it. Gosh, you're fast!' I couldn't help but grin. 'I would love to go to the carnival with you.'

'Great! We should probably head out in the morning tomorrow before it gets busy. They're just past the edge of town.'

I remembered Robbie, sulking out on the fire escape, glumly eating his way through all of my magnets and ice cubes. 'Hey, would it be okay if Robbie tagged along? I'm watching him while Dragomir's at a con this weekend. I think the kid needs some cheering up.'

Carlos made a slight choking sound into the phone, as if something had punched him directly in an emotion, or he had swallowed a gnat by mistake. ' _Dragomir's fledgling_ is staying with you?'

'Oh, I thought I mentioned.'

'You didn't, but... yeah, let's bring him. He should get out more. Get some fresh air, nature, all that. Get away from the,' Carlos hesitated, 'bustle of town. You know.'

Then Carlos said he had some things to get together before leaving the lab for the weekend, so he needed to go.

'Carlos, I'm losing time,' I said in a rush when I had wanted to say _I love you, see you in the morning._ 'It's been a month but I thought it was like a week and a half and I feel like I'm going crazy? I don't know, I just needed to tell someone.'

'I know, sweetheart,' he said, and his voice, while comforting, had the sharp edge of resolve. 'I know.'


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil tries to prepare for his carnival date but ends up having to prepare for the End Times. Carlos destroys the surveillance equipment in his lab and stages an intervention--with Steve Carlsberg. Some mysteries are solved while still more mysteries remain untouched, for this is not the end of the story; there is more to come.
> 
> Warning: off-screen original character death.

_You can listen to the performance of this chapter[here](https://soundcloud.com/malacophilous/from-the-diary-of-cecil-10)._  


 

Saturday, 6am

Dear Diary,

I was so excited I could barely sleep, so I got up before dawn to begin assembling my outfit for the day. What does one wear to a carnival? Is it a relatively clean carnival, or are there sawdust and straw and entrails everywhere? Would the terrain be prohibitive to something like pony boots? Would a cloak be too dressy? I have so many questions.

While digging around in the back of my closet I found a box of old cassette tapes, which, judging by the fresh finger smudges in the dust on the cardboard, someone has recently opened. Did I open this?

 

6:15am

I _did_ open this box. I remember opening this box. I just can't recall when.

 

6:21am

I am texting Carlos even though it's early.

_Good morning, radium-shine of my heart,_ I said in my text. _Have I mentioned a box of tapes in my closet at any point?_

This is all very strange. I feel an odd sense of familiarity when I hold these fragile plastic cassette boxes, with their tidy hand-lettered labels. Many of them have my name on them, but not in a handwriting I recognise. There are mix tapes in the box, as well, with terrible songs on them that I have never liked. Surely these aren't mine?

I suppose I should eat breakfast and wait for a response.

 

6:43am

Robbie was in the kitchen filling the ice trays. He has eaten all the magnets and seemed very down about that.

'Hi,' he said glumly.

'You're up early,' I said.

'I don't sleep when Daddy's not here,' he said.

'Oh.' I wondered what he must have been doing all night to look so dishevelled. Despondently masturbating, probably. 'Listen Robbie, Carlos and I have plans to go to this carnival thing today, and—'

Robbie cut me off. 'I can take care of myself. I won't burn down the building or something, _god_.'

'No, no, we want you to come with us. Get some air, throw darts at balloons. It can't be enjoyable being cooped up here all weekend.'

Robbie, despite his entire head being shrouded with a slouchy hat and a scarf, managed to look taken-aback. 'Really? I thought you didn't want me around.'

'Nonsense, you're only a _little_ insufferable—in, you know, fits and starts.'

'All right, then. You paying?'

'Of course.'

He didn't say anything else, just dragged himself out onto the fire escape as if he were a bag of wet laundry that really needed a smoke.

Right about that time was when Carlos texted me back:

_Sorry, I was in the shower. Morning. You mean the radio test tapes?_

_Yes, if that's what they are_ , I said.

_Listen to the podcast of last night's show,_ he said cryptically, _then get back to me._

So I did that. I felt a little sick afterwards, but that's to be expected when having an existential crisis before breakfast.

_I definitely don't have a brother,_ I texted Carlos. _And my last name's not Gershwin or any variety of Palmer._

_You didn't grow up here, either,_ said Carlos. _We have evidence of that. I have a LOT of evidence of that._

_Then who was that on the tape? It sounded like me. A small me._

Carlos didn't reply for some minutes. But then: _So does Jeff Otero from Outpost Sigma._

I don't know this person, diary, and they are out there somewhere impersonating a teenage me. This is very worrying. I asked Carlos, _What is Outpost Sigma?_

_Can't tell you,_ Carlos replied. _Risking too much already, will have to show you. Can you come to the lab in an hour?_

I told him I could, then asked what I should wear today; he recommended comfortable walking shoes, sturdy fabrics, and, if I had one, a gun.

This has been a very difficult week, and I am surprised I am still able to muster up the emotional energies to put together a really great ensemble within such narrow parameters, but it must be done. When one no longer has a voice in one's own life, one is left only with an image, as a muted television still flashes colours and shapes before it, too, as do all things, fades to static and at last to nothing.

 

7:17am

I am about to set out for Carlos' lab, as I need to have wiggle room for avoiding rampant herds of deer if I want to get there on time. I am leaving Robbie here because Carlos didn't mention bringing him, and our discussion might end up being Very Personal.

To avoid feeling woefully under-dressed in purple jeans and plain black boots, I decided on a green star-print poet shirt, with a glittery blue sweater over it because it's a little chilly this morning. I still feel like I'll blend in too much for my liking, but I'm sure Carlos will think I look fine.

Should I grab him a coffee on the way? How does he take his coffee? Do I even know if Carlos _likes_ coffee? I've missed so much over this month we have been together, so many things have fallen through the cracks in my mind. I wish I could just buy some mind-spackle and fix them myself, but if I knew where the cracks were in the first place then I wouldn't have this problem.

 

10:41am

Home again. Carlos is on his way over to pick us up. I should type up what happened before I forget. _I cannot forget._ I can't forget any of this.

I arrived at the lab only a few minutes late. I rang the bell and Carlos folded down the flap of paper that functions as a peep-hole in the papered-over glass of the door. I almost felt like I should give some sort of password, but I couldn't think of a clever one, so I just waved and said, 'It's me.'

He let me in. I have not often been inside Carlos' lab, at least that I can recall, but I tried not to be distracted by the humming computers and the weird things in jars. I tried even harder not to pay any attention to the fact that large pieces of machinery had been smashed, and panels ripped out of the walls, raw wires dangling. These were just scenery. We had important business to discuss.

That's when I saw Steve Carlsberg sitting in a swivel chair.

' _You_ ,' I said through clenched teeth.

'Me,' he said in his asshole voice.

'Carlos, what _is_ this?'

Carlos, beautiful but with lines of concern marring his perfect brow, put a hand on my arm and guided me to a chair, as if expecting me to be unsteady. That was probably not a bad thing, considering what came next. 'Cecil, I'm sorry to have to spring this on you all at once, but we've been trying to deliver it in little bite-sized portions and that isn't working.'

I narrowed my eyes at him. 'I don't understand what's happening, here. Is this some kind of intervention?'

'In a manner of speaking,' said Steve, getting up to pace the room, stepping gingerly over the snaking maze of extension cords and debris that criss-crossed the floor. His voice sounded different, somehow, as if a different actor were playing him, even though of course it was the same Steve I had always known. Irritating, sloppy, ill-mannered, weird-gift-giving Steve who takes terrible meeting minutes and is just terrible overall. Same old Steve. Who else _could_ he have been?

'Look, Cecil,' he said, 'bear with us, this is going to be hard to swallow.'

'Not unlike you scones,' I quipped.

He ignored my clever jibe at his ineptitude at baking. 'I tried to give you hints.' He sighed. 'But you didn't listen. Carlos has been doing his best, bless him, but they really did a number on you, so we have to—'

'Sorry, _who_ did?'

'What?'

'Who did a number on me?'

'That's what we're trying to explain to you.'

I made fists and let them go. I needed to keep it together, for Carlos' sake. 'By all means, proceed.'

'You know the Vague But Menacing Government Agency?' Steve asked.

'Of course I do. Do I look completely stupid?'

Carlos, who stood behind me where I sat, rubbed my shoulders gently in an attempt to soothe me. 'We don't think you're stupid, Cecil. It's just that your memory and perception of reality have been compromised.'

Steve nodded. 'Those people you think are the Vague But Menacing Government Agency are actually the Variance Between Mentalities Group.' When I looked sceptical he added, 'I know, I know, it's a terrible name, but it stuck. Anyway, VBM, they started something called Project Bernardino Sideshow during the Cold War.'

'What does this have to do with me?' I asked. It all sounded like nonsense, but Carlos wove his fingers through my hair and made a shushing sound.

Steve stopped pacing and sat on the edge of a table which seemed to have been hastily swept of materials, for several broken flasks and scattered papers littered the floor on all sides. 'You have to understand the background before it'll make sense how you factor into it.'

'Just try to suspend your disbelief for awhile,' said Carlos.

I grudgingly complied.

'Right,' said Steve. 'Bernardino Sideshow was started as one of those MKUltra-type things, you know, human behavioural engineering, all very hush-hush. They rounded up a bunch of immigrants and street kids to experiment on, because they figured nobody would miss them; they put these people through an intense behavioural conditioning process that left them with very little in the way of Self. A lot of the younger ones were no longer...' he grimaced, ' _cognitively viable_ , so they were left as sort of half-alive, stunted zombie children. The people who _did_ come out of it with some semblance of humanity left became puppets, basically, and were trained to take certain archetypal roles in this created society—the Rich Fool, the Wise Crone, the Fearless Leader, and so on. After awhile VBM added other experiments to the program: biological engineering, cloning research, really fucked-up Mengele stuff. Then in '94 they started Project Bernardino Deathwatch to see if they could implement their findings in a way that would create blindly loyal subjects of a corporate figurehead.'

'Sounds like Desert Bluffs,' I said with disgust.

Steve nodded. 'That's the point. It _is_ Desert Bluffs.'

' _Both_ of those things?'

'No, Deathwatch is Desert Bluffs, Sideshow is Night Vale.'

I was already feeling lost and didn't know what to say, so instead I said, 'Can I smoke?'

'Go ahead,' said Carlos, 'I'm abandoning the place anyway, so it's not like I'm going to get in trouble for violating the lease.'

I jolted and turned around to look at him. 'But why? All your research—'

'We'll get to that, sweetheart.'

I lit a cigarette and tried not to focus on the world crashing down around me.

Steve kicked his legs a little, shuffling some papers across the floor. It seemed an oddly normal, human gesture, coming from him. 'I have a master's degree in behavioural psych, and was an off-site researcher with VBM in Florida.' 

'Why is it always Florida?' I muttered.

'I met you during a radio interview about my university's psych department overhaul. We started dating shortly after that.'

Carlos felt me flinch and murmured, 'Steady on.'

'Years into our relationship you still had no idea what I did for a living, not really. But you're a curious guy. You asked a lot of questions about classified subjects. My bosses started to get angry about that.' Steve nervously rubbed the back of his neck. 'You know what happens when the City Council gets angry? It's exactly like that, because these same people _run_ the City Council.' I puffed hard on my cigarette so I wouldn't freak out. Steve went on: 'Eventually they labelled you as a danger to project security. You had your NPR show, it had recently gained widespread syndication, and as a somewhat public figure you had a lot of pull. If you started speaking publicly and asking questions about what was going on with VBM, things would have gone very badly for them. I had to beg them not to harm you. It was...' he looked away, gripped with some unnamed emotion. 'It was a difficult time for both of us.'

'When was this?' I asked, shaken by how much of a sympathetic, regular guy Steve now seemed. Had he always been like this and I just treated him like a monster out of habit? Had he been antagonising me for some calculated reason, but was actually a perfectly sweet person?

'Late 2001.'

I felt like the room was tilting. 'What did you do, what happened?'

Steve shook his head. 'There wasn't much I _could_ do. I bargained for a couple of years, stalling for time until you pushed them too far. One day you followed me and broke into the facility where I worked—you had to know the truth, you were crushed by the idea that I was hiding things from you. You got caught. I was called.'

'Maybe take a breather for a minute,' said Carlos, going to get Steve a glass of water. Steve looked drawn and pale, like someone emerging from a long illness, or perhaps just starting to succumb to one.

'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I don't remember any of this, but I'm sorry.'

Steve kneaded the edge of the table, leaning hard on the heels of his hands. 'It wasn't your fault. I could have backed out early on—but once they get you, once they convince you that despite all the horror movie shit they pulled _you_ can still make a difference for the greater good, that's when they really have their hooks in you so deep you can't wrench them out. They recruited me before I even got my master's, I was young and dumb and eager to prove myself.'

I stubbed out my cigarette on the sole of my boot, not knowing what to do with the end of it. It seemed impolite to drop it on the floor, even a floor strewn so liberally with destroyed equipment and half-shredded documents. I ended up putting it on the floor and then putting my boot on that spot so Carlos wouldn't see. It seems a ridiculous little worry now that I type this, but at the time it felt massively important.

'Here you go,' said Carlos, handing Steve some water. 'How you holding up?'

'I thought it was hard to tell _you—_ I didn't know it would be this hard to be honest with him,' said Steve in a hushed voice meant only for Carlos. I felt a pang I couldn't define. He was obviously in pain.

'It'll be okay,' said Carlos, giving Steve a comforting pat on the shoulder. 'Just go at your own pace.'

Soon Steve had got a little of his colour back and resumed his story.

'Where was I? Oh, you broke in. Right. So there I was, given two equally terrible options: I could either let them _take care of you_ , or I could suggest a solution to the problem and wait for their approval.'

I felt a cold chill run down my spine. 'Like, Mafia movie kind of take care of me?'

Steve nodded. 'I couldn't let that happen. But if they didn't like whatever suggestion I gave them, it would happen anyway. I had to convince them that my idea, whatever it was, was to their advantage. I was given twenty-four hours. They kept you on the premises. I had to sleep alone in our house for the first time in... in a long time.' He took a shaky breath. 'But I came up with something, and they bought it.'

Steve was quiet for a long moment. 'I don't think I can explain this part. Carlos?'

Carlos nodded. 'Basically he sold them the idea that they could integrate _you_ into Project Bernardino Sideshow, Cecil. You'd be a great Storyteller archetype—one of the important ones they were missing so far. Up until that point VBM had only used people who were unattached, orphans and the homeless, young veterans with PTSD and estranged families, recent immigrants without any local ties. Haven't you ever wondered about how ethnically diverse Night Vale is for a small town in the desert, why so many people have different accents?'

I hadn't, actually, but it immediately seemed strange now that someone had brought it up.

'By taking you into the project, they'd be able to see how the psychological scrub-down worked on someone more established, someone who had had a stable adult life, a good childhood and education, all that.' Carlos glanced at Steve, as if to make sure he was still entirely present. 'It was a big step, and it would get you out of the way.'

'My only proviso was that I had to come with you,' said Steve quietly, not looking at me. 'I knew you best, I'd lived with you for a long time. I knew your history and your habits. I'd be the perfect observer, to see how you took to the training, the change of location, the back-story they fabricated and drilled into you. I would track how you adapted, what you did and didn't remember. I'd be a background character in your life, someone who interacted with you enough to gather information, but would by no means be a friend.'

I felt suddenly sick. 'Oh, god. For _ten years_?'

Carlos started pacing then, fidgeting with a pen, clicking it open and closed. 'Steve figured that if he annoyed you, that would be a way to keep him on your mind, so even though he couldn't be with you anymore, you might still think of him frequently. Apparently he's _really_ good at annoying you.'

Steve shrugged, a little half-smile twisting his mouth, his eyes still sad. 'I know all the right buttons to push.'

At this point I don't remember much of who said what, so I'll just write what I recall:

Following me to Night Vale—or Project Bernardino Sideshow as it is more commonly known, since it isn't even a real town on the map—Steve became an archetypal character himself, unbeknownst to the people in charge of the project. He became the Dissenter, feeding me little snippets of reality even as I thought they were conspiracy theories and lies. He tried to plant a seed of doubt in my mind and trigger my memory.

Meanwhile, Carlos was recruited by VMB shortly before he graduated from Cal State Fullerton, and came to do field work for Bernardino Sideshow without knowing any of the nitty-gritty brainwashing stuff. He was just supposed to observe from a distance, but things got too weird for him to hold at arm's length anymore and he started subtly undermining the project's aims, all while putting on the mask of still abiding by the rules. He even had to ask permission from the project leaders to _date me_ —and they only agreed because he had just had a near-death experience, and because they wanted to see what would happen if an outsider initiated a relationship with someone within the project. Carlos wasn't supposed to tell me anything, just like Steve. But as time wore on and Carlos figured things out, he couldn't keep hiding it from me.

I asked about my memories, which I now know to be false: my travels in Europe, the stuff on the cassette I found. Steve said that my memories of Europe were the garbled result of trying to give me a tangible feeling of having a past without there being any real substance to back them up. The tapes were planted to allay my recent suspicions about my memory and my past, to try to solidify the idea that I have always lived in Night Vale.

Diary, on the one hand I feel like the world is ending, that my very life is ending; but on the other hand, I feel curiously free. This explains so much, though so much is still left unexplained. Why does Khoshekh float suspended by the men's room sink? What are angels, and if they exist then where have they gone? There wasn't time to ask about everything, but I did ask what I felt to be the most important question:

'What happens now?'

Carlos looked seriously between me and Steve. 'We're getting out of here—that is, if you're willing to come with us.'

'And if you're _not_ willing, we'll throw you in the back of the car and take you anyway,' said Steve in a tone which seemed to be an attempt at levity, but he was serious.

I had halfway been expecting that. 'I don't know if I want to leave.'

'Cecil, this place isn't _real_ ,' said Carlos. 'It's all a construct. They've been toying with you, and with everyone, for years. This is a life or death situation, and we have to look at this for what it really is. I love Night Vale as much as you do, but Night Vale is only in the minds of people who live in it—in reality it's a big experiment, a game, and we're all disposable pieces. There's no real history, and no future.'

'Well, what about everyone else? What's going to happen to them?'

Steve looked grave. 'We can only smuggle so many people out. We're already risking our lives by trying to escape with you.'

'But you both _work_ for these people!'

Steve got to his feet. 'And they wouldn't bat an eye at eliminating us for breach of contract. Considering what they've done to so many innocent people, is it really surprising that they kill off their employees for stepping out of line?'

I told them I supposed they were right.

A very silly thought occurred to me. 'I know this sounds stupid, but if you're telling me all this now, does this mean we're not going to the carnival?'

'Oh, no, we're going,' said Carlos. 'It's our only ticket out of this place.'

I didn't know what he meant, but I pressed on. 'Are we still taking Robbie? What will happen when Dragomir gets back?'

Steve sighed. 'Dragomir's dead, Cecil. His experiment was terminated.'

'Oh, my god, are you _serious_?' I was on my feet then, and clutched Carlos' shoulder for support. 'They _killed Dragomir_?'

'He's from the same sub-project of biological experiments as the Faceless Old Woman—Dragomir was the second run, Robbie's the third.' Carlos took my hand, knowing his words would be a staggering blow. 'And if we don't take Robbie with us, they're vivisecting him on Monday.'

I felt dizzy again, glad to have someone to hold onto. I asked Carlos, 'What do we do?'

'Steve's going to drive you home. You're going to get together any important stuff you can throw into a duffel bag. I have to finish destroying a few things here, then I'll meet you guys at your apartment and we'll head out to the edge of town.'

'Oh, god,' I said, not having anything more constructive to contribute at that point.

'It'll be okay,' said Steve, taking my keys from my trembling hand and giving me a hug. I was too surprised to back away. He whispered into my shoulder, 'I'm sorry I dragged you into this, my little headstone.'

There was a strange echo in my mind; I had called Carlos that, some days ago—or was it weeks?—because I had remembered someone calling _me_ that, and that I had thought it was cute. And now, hearing Steve say it, I knew it was Steve who had given me the pet name in the first place.

We didn't speak in the car. Being together in an enclosed space, knowing what we both now knew, felt both tense and intimate, and speech would have somehow broken the delicate thread of understanding newly spun between us.

I am about to put my typewriter into its case. I have packed my favourite clothes in an overnight bag, along with my big ring binder of past diary entries, and my kink index. I tried to call Old Woman Josie, but she doesn't seem to be home. For the life of me I couldn't think of anyone else still alive and in town to whom I wanted to say farewell.

So this is it, diary. It seems I am leaving Night Vale, such as it is, once and for all. I am experiencing a strange cocktail of emotions: fear, premature homesickness, curiosity, anger, a second and entirely _different_ sort of fear, and—underneath it all, small and mostly stifled by worry and terror—hope.

Goodbye, Night Vale. 

Goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ate up the last of my Soundcloud minutes. I'd like to keep everything in one place and not split up the story between accounts (because that's confusing as hell), so if you have enjoyed the audio performances of this story and can spare a few bucks, please consider donating to my Soundcloud account upgrade fund so I can post the upcoming chapters (there's a button in the sidebar of my blog: malacophilous on Tumblr). If I am able to upgrade, I will have unlimited minutes for the next year, meaning I'll be doing a LOT more podfic. As always, thanks for reading/listening. ♥


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